liiiil  I N  INGLAND 


GIFT   OF 
Felix  Flugel 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2008  with  funding  from 

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http://www.archive.org/details/afootinenglandOOhudsrich 


AFOOT  IN 
ENGLAND 


BOOKS  BY  W.  H.  HUDSON 


GREEN  MANSIONS 

TALES  OF  THE  PAMPAS 

BIRDS  AND  MAN 

A  LITTLE  BOY  LOST 

AFOOT  IN  ENGLAND 

RALPH  HERNK    [in  Preparation] 


NEW  YORK:        ALFRED  :  A  :  KNOPF 


AFOOT  IN  ENGLAND 


W.  H.  HUDSON 


Z   !•  *»»»•» 

*>*  J 

NEW  YORK 

ALFRED/ A. 

'  KNOPF 

1922 

COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF,  Inc. 

Published,  May,  1922 
Second  Printing,  September,  1922 


DA  630 
1922 


Bet  up,  electrotvped,  and  printed  by  the  Tail-Ballou  Co.,  BingTiamton,  N.  T. 
Paper  (Warren's)  furnithed  by  Henry  Lindenmeyr  &  Bom,  New  York,  N.  Y. 
Bound  by  the  H.  Wol^  Estate,  New  York.  N.  Y. 


MANUFAOTUBBD    IN    THE    UNITED    STATES    OV    AMBBIOA 


Contents 

L  Guide  Books:  An  Introduction,  9 

//.  On  Going  Back,  21 

///.  Walking  and  Cycling,  33 

IV.  Seeking  a  Shelter,  41 

V ,  Wind,  Wave,  and  Spirit,  52 

VI.  By  Swallowfield,  76 

VII.  Roman  Calleva,  87 

VIII .  A  Gold  Day  at  Silchester,  95 

IX.  Rural  Rides,  103 

X.  The  Last  of  his  Name,  131 

XI.  Salisbury  and  its  Doves,  145 

XII.  Whitesheet  Hill,  153 

XIII.  Bath  and  Wells  Revisited,  l6l 

XIV.  The  Return  of  the  Native,  177 
XV.  Summer  Days  on  the  Otter,  185 

XVI.  In  Praise  of  the  Cow,  193 


Tng-tr\fii'=:A  O 


Contents 


CHAPTER 


XVIL  An  Old  Road  heading  Nowhere, 

200 

XV HI.  Branscombe,  209 

XIX.  Abbotsbury,  220 

XX.  Salisbury  Revisited,  230 

XXI.  Stonehenge,  239 

XXII.  The  Village  and  ''The  Stones,''  254 

XXIII.  Following  a  River,  266 

XXIV.  Troston,  273 
XXV,  My  Friend  lack,  298 


AFOOT  IN 
ENGLAND 


Chapter   One:  Guide-Books: 
An  Introduction 

Guide-books  are  so  many  that  it  seems  probable  we 
have  more  than  any  other  country — ^possibly  more 
than  all  the  rest  of  the  universe  together.  Every 
county  has  a  little  library  of  its  own — guides  to  its 
towns,  churches,  abbeys,  castles,  rivers,  mountains; 
finally,  to  the  county  as  a  whole.  They  are  of  all 
prices  and  all  sizes,  from  the  diminutive  paper-covered 
booklet,  worth  a  penny,  to  the  stout  cloth-bound 
octavo  volume  which  posts  eight  or  ten  or  twelve 
shillings,  or  to  the  gigantic  folio  county  history,  the 
huge  repository  from  which  the  guide-book  maker 
gets  his  materials.  For  these  great  works  are  also 
guide-books,  containing  everything  we  want  to  learn, 
only  made  on  s^o  huge  a  scale  as  to  be  suited  to  the 
coat  pockets  of  Brobdingnagians  rather  than  of  little 
ordinary  men.  The  wonder  of  it  all  comes  in  when 
we  find  that  these  books,  however  old  and  compara- 
tively worthless  they  may  be,  are  practically  never 
wholly  out  of  date.  When  a  new  work  is  brought 
out  (dozens  appear  annually)  and,  say,  ^v^  thousand 
copies  sold,  it  d,oes  not  throw  as  many,  or  indeed  any, 
copies  of  the  old  book  out  of  circulation:  it  supersedes 
nothing.  If  any  man  can  indulge  In  the  luxury  of  a 
new  up-to-date  guide  to  any  place,  and  gets  rid  of  his 


:,; ;«.'.',  Afoot  in  England 

oM'otii  (^'rare  thing  to  do),  this  will  be  snapped  up 
by  poorer  men,  who  will  treasure  it  and  hand  it  down 
or  on  to  others.  Editions  of  1.860-50-40,  and  older, 
are  still  prized,  not  merely  as  keepsakes  but  for  study 
or  reference.  Any  one  can  prove  this  by  going  the 
round  of  a  dozen  second-hand  booksellers  in  his  own 
district  in  London.  There  will  be  tons  of  literary 
rubbish,  and  good  stuff  old  and  new,  but  few  guide- 
books— in  some  cases  not  one.  If  you  ask  your  man 
at  a  venture  for,  &ay,  a  guide  to  Hampshire,  he  Will 
most  probably  tell  you  that  he  has  not  one  in  stoc3c; 
then,  in  his  anxiety  to  do  business,  he  will,  perhaps, 
fish  out  a  guide  to  Derbyshire,  dated  1854 — a  shabby 
old  book — and  offer  it  for  four  or  five  shillings,  the 
price  of  a  Crabbe  in  eight  volumes,  or  of  Gibbon's 
Decline  and  Fall  in  six  volumes,  bound  in  calf. 
Talk  to  this  man,  and  to  the  other  eleven,  and  they  will 
tell  you  that  there  is  always  a  sale  for  guide-books — ■ 
that  the  supply  does  not  keep  pace  with  the  demand. 
It  may  be  taken  as  a  fact  that  most  af  the  books  of 
this  kind  published  during  the  last  half-century — many 
millions  of  copies  in  the  aggregate — axe  still  in  ex- 
istence and  are  valued  possessions. 

There  is  nothing  to  quarrel  with  in  all  this.  As  a 
people  we  run  about  a  great  deal;  and  having  curious 
minds  we  naturally  wish  to  know  all  there  is  to  be 
known,  or  all  that  is  interesting  to  know,  about  the 
places  we  visit.  Then,  again,  our  time  as  a  rule  being 
limited,  we  want  the  whole  matter — history,  antiqui- 
ties, places  of  interest  in  the  neighbourhood,  etc. — in 
a  nutshell.     The  brief  book  serves  its  purpose  well 

10 


Guide-Books:  An  Introduction 

enough;  but  it  is  not  thrown  away  like  the  newspaper 
and  the  magazines;  however  cheap  and  badly  got  up 
it  may  be,  it  is  taken  home  to  serve  another  purpose, 
to  be  a  help  to  memory,  and  nobody  can  have  it  until 
its  owner  removes  himself  (but  not  his  possessions) 
from  this  planet;  or  until  the  broker  seizes  his  belong- 
ings, and  guide-books,  together  with  other  books,  are 
disposed  of  in  packages  by  the  auctioneer. 

In  all  this  we  see  that  guide-books  are  very  im- 
portant to  us,  and  that  there  is  little  or  no  fault  to 
be  found  with  them,  since  even  the  worst  give  some 
guidance  and  enable  us  in  after  times  mentally  to 
revisit  distant  places.  It  may  then  be  said  that  there 
are  really  no  bad  guide-books,  and  that  those  that  arc 
good  In  the  highest  sense  are  beyond  praise.  A  rev- 
erential sentiment,  which  is  almost  religious  in 
character,  connects  itself  in  our  minds  with  the  very 
name  of  Murray.  It  is,  however,  possible  to  make 
an  injudicious  use  of  these  books,  and  by  so  doing  to 
miss  the  fine  point  of  many  a  pleasure.  The  very  fact 
that  these  books  are  guides  to  us  and  invaluable,  and 
that  we  readily  acquire  the  habit  of  taking  them  about 
with  us  and  consulting  them  at  frequent  intervals, 
comes  between  us  and  that  rarest  and  most  exquisite 
enjoyment  to  be  experienced  amidst  novel  scenes.  He 
that  visits  a  place  new  to  him  for  some  special  object 
rightly  informs  himself  of  all  that  the  book  can  tell 
him.  The  knowledge  may  be  useful;  pleasure  is  with 
him  a  secondary  object.  But  if  pleasure  be  the  main 
object,  it  will  only  be  experienced  in  the  highest  degree 
by  him  who  goes  without  book  and  discovers  what 

II 


Afoot  in  England 

old  Fuller  called  the  "observables"  for  himself. 
There  will  be  no  mental  pictures  previously  formed; 
consequently  what  is  found  will  not  disappoint. 
When  the  mind  has  been  permitted  to  dwell  before- 
hand on  any  scene,  then,  however  beautiful  or  grand 
it  may  be,  the  element  of  surprise  is  wanting  and 
admiration  is  weak.     The  delight  has  been  discounted. 

My  own  plan,  which  may  be  recommended  only  to 
those  who  go  out  for  pleasure — who  value  happiness 
above  useless  (otherwise  useful)  knowledge,  and  the 
pictures  that  live  and  glow  in  memory  above  albums 
and  collections  of  photographs — is  not  to  look  at  a 
guide-book  until  the  place  it  treats  of  has  been  ex- 
plored and  left  behind. 

The  practical  person,  to  whom  this  may  come  as 
a  new  idea  and  who  wishes  not  to  waste  any  time  in 
experiments,  would  doubtless  like  to  hear  how  the 
plan  works.  He  will  say  that  he  certainly  wants  all 
the  happiness  to  be  got  out  of  his  rambles,  but  it  is 
clear  that  without  the  book  in  his  pocket  he  would 
miss  many  interesting  things :  Would  the  greater  de- 
gree of  pleasure  experienced  in  the  others  be  a  suf- 
ficient compensation?  I  should  say  that  he  would  gain 
more  than  he  would  lose;  that  vivid  interest  and  pleas- 
ure in  a  few  things  is  preferable  to  that  fainter,  more 
diffused  feeling  experienced  in  the  other  case.  Again, 
we  have  to  take  into  account  the  value  to  us  of  the 
mental  pictures  gathered  in  our  wanderings.  For  we 
know  that  only  when  a  scene  is  viewed  emotionally, 
when  it  produces  in  us  a  shock  of  pleasure,  does  it 
become  a  permanent  possession  of  the  mind;  in  other 

12 


Guide-Books:  An  Introduction 

words,  it  registers  an  image  which,  when  called  up 
before  the  inner  eye,  is  capable  of  reproducing  a  mea- 
sure of  the  original  delight. 

In  recalling  those  scenes  which  have  given  me  the 
greatest  happiness,  the  images  of  which  are  most  vivid 
and  lasting,  I  find  that  most  of  them  are  of  scenes  or 
objects  which  were  discovered,  as  it  were,  by  chance, 
which  I  had  not  heard  of,  or  else  had  heard  of  and 
forgotten,  or  which  I  had  not  expected  to  see.  They 
came  as  a  surprise,  and  in  the  following  instance  one 
may  see  that  it  makes  a  vast  difference  whether  we 
do  or  do  not  experience  such  a  sensation. 

In  the  course  of  a  ramble  on  foot  in  a  remote  dis- 
trict I  came  to  a  small  ancient  town,  set  in  a  cup- 
like depression  amidst  high  wood-grown  hills.  The 
woods  were  of  oak  in  spring  foliage,  and  against  that 
vivid  green  I  saw  the  many-gabled  tiled  roofs  and  tall 
chimneys  of  the  old  timbered  houses,  glowing  red  and 
warm  brown  in  the  brilliant  sunshine — a  scene  of 
rare  beauty,  and  yet  it  produced  no  shock  of  pleasure ; 
never,  in  fact,  had  I  looked  on  a  lovely  scene  for  the 
first  time  so  unemotionally.  It  seemed  to  be  no  new 
scene,  but  an  old  familiar  one ;  and  that  it  had  certain 
degrading  associations  which  took  away  all  delight. 

The  reason  of  this  was  that  a  great  railway  company 
had  long  been  ''booming"  this  romantic  spot,  and 
large  photographs,  plain  and  coloured,  of  the  town 
and  its  quaint  buildings  had  for  years  been  staring  at 
me  in  every  station  and  every  railway  carriage  which 
I  had  entered  on  that  line.  Photography  degrades 
most  things,  especially  open-air   things;   and  in  this 

13 


Afoot  in  England 

case,  not  only  had  its  poor  presentments  made  the 
scene  too  familiar,  but  something  of  the  degradation 
in  the  advertising  pictures  seemed  to  attach  itself  to 
the  very  scene.  Yet  even  here,  after  some  pleasure- 
less  days  spent  in  vain  endeavours  to  shake  off  these 
vulgar  associations,  I  was  to  experience  one  of  the 
sweetest  surprises  and  delights  of  my  life. 

The  church  of  this  village-hke  town  is  one  of  its 
chief  attractions ;  it  is  a  very  old  and  stately  building, 
and  its  perpendicular  tower,  nearly  a  hundred  feet 
high,  is  one  of  the  noblest  in  England.  It  has  a 
magnificent  peal  of  bells,  and  on  a  Sunday  afternoon 
they  were  ringing,  filling  and  flooding  that  hollow  in 
the  hills,  seeming  to  make  the  houses  and  trees  and 
the  very  earth  to  tremble  with  the  glorious  storm  of 
sound.  Walking  past  the  church,  I  followed  the 
streamlet  that  runs  through  the  town  and  out  by  a  cleft 
between  the  hills  to  a  narrow  marshy  valley,  on  the 
other  side  of  which  are  precipitous  hills,  clothed  from 
base  to  summit  in  oak  woods.  As  I  walked  through 
the  cleft  the  musical  roar  of  the  bells  followed,  and 
was  like  a  mighty  current  flowing  through  and  over 
me;  but  as  I  came  out  the  sound  from  behind  ceased 
suddenly  and  was  now  in  front,  coming  back  from  the 
hills  before  me.  A  sound,  but  not  the  same — not  a 
mere  echo;  and  yet  an  echo  it  was,  the  most  wonder- 
ful I  had  ever  heard.  For  now  that  great  tempest  of 
musical  noise,  composed  of  a  multitude  of  clanging 
notes  with  long  vibrations,  overlapping  and  mingling 
and  clashing  together,  seemed  at  the  same  time  one 
and  many — that  tempest  from  the  tower  which  had 

14 


Guide-Books:  An  Introduction 
mysteriously  ceased  to  be  audible  came  back  in  strokes 
or  notes  distinct  and  separate  and  multiplied  many 
times.  The  sound,  the  echo,  was  distributed  over 
the  whole  face  of  the  steep  hill  before  me,  and  was 
changed  in  character,  and  it  was  as  if  every  one  of 
those  thousands  of  oak  trees  had  a  peal  of  bells  in  it, 
and  that  they  were  raining  that  far-up  bright  spiritual 
tree-music  down  into  the  valley  below.  As  I  stood 
listening  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  had  never  heard  any- 
thing so  beautiful,  nor  had  any  man — not  the  monk  of 
Eynsham  in  that  vision  when  he  heard  the  Easter  bells 
on  the  holy  Saturday  evening,  and  described  the  sound 
as  '*a  ringing  of  a  marvellous  sweetness,  as  if  all 
the  bells  in  the  world,  or  whatsoever  is  of  s-ound- 
ing,  had  been  rung  together  at  once." 

Here,  then,  I  had  found  and  had  become  the  pos- 
sessor of  something  priceless,  since  in  that  moment 
of  surprise  and  delight  the  mysterious  beautiful  sound, 
with  the  whole  scene,  had  registered  an  impression 
which  would  outlast  all  others  received  at  that  place, 
where  I  had  viewed  all  things  with  but  languid  in- 
terest. Had  it  not  come  as  a  complete  surprise,  the 
emotion  experienced  and  the  resultant  mental  image 
would  not  have  been  so  vivid;  as  it  is,  I  can  mentally 
stand  in  that  valley  when  I  will,  seeing  that  green- 
wooded  hill  in  front  of  me  and  listen  to  that  unearthly 
music. 

Naturally,  after  quitting  the  spot,  I  looked  at  the 
first  opportunity  into  a  guide-book  of  the  district,  only 
to  find  that  it  contained  not  one  word  about  those 
wonderful    illusive    sounds!     The    book-makers    had 

15 


Afoot  in  England 

not  done  their  work  well,  since  it  is  a  pleasure  after 
having  discovered  something  delightful  for  ourselves 
to  know  how  others  have  been  affected  by  it  and  how 
they  describe  it. 

Of  many  other  incidents  of  the  kind  I  will,  in  this 
chapter,  relate  one  more,  which  has  a  historical  or 
legendary  interest. 

I  was  staying  with  the  companion  of  my  walks  at 
a  village  in  Southern  England  in  a  district  new  to  us. 
We  arrived  on  a  Saturday,  and  next  morning  after 
breakfast  went  out  for  a  long  walk.  Turning  into 
the  first  path  across  the  fields  on  leaving  the  village, 
we  came  eventually  to  an  oak  wood,  which  was  like 
an  open  forest,  very  wild  and  solitary.  In  half  an 
hour's  walk  among  the  old  oaks  and  underwood  we 
saw  no  sign  of  human  occupancy,  and  heard  nothing 
but  the  woodland  birds.  We  heard,  and  then  saw, 
the  cuckoo  for  the  first  time  that  season,  though  it  was 
but  April  the  fourth.  But  the  cuckoo  was  early  that 
spring  and  had  been  heard  by  some  from  the  middle 
of  March.  At  length,  about  half-past  ten  o'clock, 
we  caught  sight  of  a  number  of  people  walking  in  a 
kind  of  straggling  procession  by  a  path  which  crossed 
ours  at  right  angles,  headed  by  a  stout  old  man  in  a 
black  smock  frock  and  brown  leggings,  who  carried  a 
big  book  in  one  hand.  One  of  the  processionists  we 
spoke  to  told  us  they  came  from  a  hamlet  a  mile  away 
on  the  borders  of  the  wood  and  were  on  their  way 
to  church.  We  elected  to  follow  them,  thinking  that 
the  church  was  at  some  neighbouring  village;  to  our 
surprise  we  found  it  was  in  the  wood,  with  no  other 

i6 


Guide-Books:  An  Introduction 

building  in  sight — a  small  ancient-looking  church  built 
on  a  raised  mound,  surrounded  by  a  wide  shallow  grass- 
grown  trench,  on  the  border  of  a  marshy  stream. 
The  people  went  in  and  took  their  seats,  while  we 
remained  standing  just  by  the  door.  Then  the  priest 
came  from  the  vestry,  and  seizing  the  rope  vigorously, 
pulled  at  it  for  five  minutes,  after  which  he  showed 
us  where  to  sit  and  the  service  began.  It  was  very 
pleasant  there,  with  the  door  open  to  the  sunlit  forest 
and  the  little  green  churchyard  without,  with  a  willow 
wren,  the  first  I  had  heard,  singing  his  delicate  little 
strain  at  intervals. 

The  service  over,  we  rambled  an  hour  longer  in 
the  wood,  then  returned  to  our  village,  which  had  a 
church  of  its  own,  and  our  landlady,  hearing  where 
we  had  been,  told  us  the  story,  or  tradition,  of  the 
little  church  in  the  wood.  Its  origin  goes  very  far 
back  to  early  Norman  times-,  when  all  the  land  in 
this  part  was  owned  by  one  of  William's  followers 
on  whom  it  had  been  bestowed.  He  built  himself 
a  house,  or  castle  on  the  edge  of  the  forest,  where  he 
lived  with  his  wife  and  two  little  daughters  who  were 
his  chief  delight.  It  happened  that  one  day  when  he 
was  absent  the  two  little  girls  with  their  female 
attendant  went  into  the  wood  in  search  of  flowers, 
and  that  meeting  a  wild  boar  they  turned  and  fled, 
screaming  for  help.  The  savage  beast  pursued,  and, 
quickly  overtaking  them,  attacked  the  hindermost,  the 
youngest  of  the  two  little  girls,  and  killed  her,  the 
others  escaping  in  the  meantime.  On  the  following 
day  the  father  returned,  and  was  mad  with  grief  and 

17 


Afoot  in  Kn gland 

rage  on  hearing  of  the  tragedy,  and  In  his  madness 
resolved  to  go  alone  on  foot  to  the  forest  and  search 
for  the  beast  and  taste  no  food  or  drink  until  he  had 
slain  it.  Accordingly  to  the  forest  he  went,  and 
roamed  through  it  by  day  and  night,  and  towards 
the  end  of  the  following  day  he  actually  found  and 
roused  the  dreadful  animal,  and  although  weakened 
by  his  long  fast  and  fatigue,  his  fury  gave  him  force 
to  fight  and  conquer  it,  or  else  the  powers  above  came 
to  his  aid;  for  when  he  stood  spear  in  hand  to  wait 
the  charge  of  the  furious  beast  he  vowed  that  if 
he  overcame  it  on  that  spot  he  would  build  a  chapel, 
where  God  would  be  worshipped  for  ever.  And  there 
it  was  raised  and  has  stood  to  this  day,  its  doors 
open  every  Sunday  to  worshippers,  with  but  one  break, 
some  time  in  the  sixteenth  century  to  the  third  year 
of  Elizabeth,  since  when  there  has  been  no  suspension 
of  the  weekly  service. 

That  the  tradition  is  not  true  no  one  can  say.  We 
know  that  the  memory  of  an  action  or  tragedy  of  a 
character  to  stir  the  feelings  and  impress  the  imagina- 
tion may  live  unrecorded  in  any  locality  for  long 
centuries.  And  more,  we  know  or  suppose,  from  at 
least  one  quite  familiar  instance  from  FHntshire,  that  a 
tradition  may  even  take  us  back  to  prehistoric  times 
and  find  corroboration  in  our  own  day. 

But  of  this  story  what  corroboration  is  there,  and 
what  do  the  books  say?  I  have  consulted  the  county 
history,  and  no  mention  is  made  of  such  a  tradition, 
and  can  only  assume  that  the.  author  had  never  heard 
it — that  he  had  not  the  curious  Aubrey  mind.     He 

i8 


Guide-Books:  An  Introduction 

only  says  that  it  is  a  very  early  church — ^how  early 
he  does  not  know — and  adds  that  it  was  built  "for 
the  convenience  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  place."  An 
odd  statement,  seeing  that  the  place  has  every  ap- 
pearance of  having  always  been  what  it  is,  a  forest, 
and  that  the  inhabitants  thereof  are  weasels,  foxes, 
jays  and  such-like,  and  doubtless  in  former  days  in- 
cluded wolves,  boars,  roe-deer  and  stags,  beings  which, 
as  Walt  Whitman  truly  remarks,  do  not  worry  them- 
selves about  their  souls. 

With  this  question,  however,  we  need  nof  concern 
ourselves.  To  me,  after  stumbling  by  chance  on  the 
little  church  in  that  solitary  woodland  place,  the  story 
of  its  origin  was  accepted  as  true;  no  doubt  it  had 
come  down  unaltered  from  generation  to  generation 
through  all  those  centuries,  and  it  moved  my  pity 
yet  was  a  delight  to  hear,  as  great  perhaps  as  it  had 
been  to  listen  to  the  beautiful  chimes  many  times 
multiplied  from  the  wooded  hill.  And  if  I  have  a 
purpose  in  this  book,  which  is  without  a  purpose,  a 
message"  to  deliver  and  a  lesson  to  teach,  it  is  only 
this — the  charm  of  the  unknown,  and  the  infinitely 
greater  pleasure  in  discovering  the  interesting  things 
for  ourselves  than  in  informing  ourselves  of  them  by 
reading.  It  is  like  the  difference  in  flavour  in  wild 
fruits  and  all  wild  meats  found  and  gathered  by  our 
own  hands  in  wild  places  and  that  of  the  same  pre- 
pared and  put  on  the  table  for  us.  The  ever-varying 
aspects  of  nature,  of  earth  and  sea  and  cloud,  are 
a  perpetual  joy  to  the  artist,  who  waits  and  watches 
for  their  appearance,  who  knows  that  sun  and  atmos- 

19 


Afoot  in  England 

pherc  have  for  him  revelations  without  end.  They 
come  and  go  and  mock  his  best  efforts ;  he  knows  that 
his  striving  is  in  vain — that  his  weak  hands  and  earthy 
pigments  cannot  reproduce  these  effects  or  express 
his  feeling — that,  as  Leighton  said,  "every  picture  is 
a  subject  thrown  away."  But  he  has  his  joy  none 
the  less;  it  is  in  the  pursuit  and  in  the  dream  of  captur- 
ing something  illusive,  mysterious,  and  inexpressibly 
beautiful. 


20 


Chapter  Two:    On  Going  Back 

In  looking  over  the  preceding  chapter  it  occurred  to 
me  that  I  had  omitted  something,  or  rather  that  it 
would  have  been  well  to  drop  a  word  of  warning  to 
those  who  have  the  desire  to  revisit  a  place  where 
they  have  experienced  a  delightful  surprise.  Alas! 
they  cannot  have  that  sensation  a  second  time,  and 
on  this  account  alone  the  mental  image  must  always  be 
better  than  its  reality.  Let  the  image — the  first  sharp 
impression — content  us.  Many  a  beautiful  picture  is 
spoilt  by  the  artist  who  cannot  be  satisfied  that  he 
has  made  the  best  of  his  subject,  and  retouching  his 
canvas  to  bring  out  some  subtle  charm  which  made  the 
work  a  success  loses  it  altogether.  So  in  going  back, 
the  result  of  the  inevitable  disillusionment  is  that  the 
early  mental  picture  loses  something  of  its  original 
freshness.  The  very  fact  that  the  delightful  place 
or  scene  was  discovered  by  us  made  it  the  shining  place 
it  is  in  memory.  And  again,  the  charm  we  found  in 
it  may  have  been  in  a  measure  due  to  the  mood  we 
were  in,  or  to  the  peculiar  aspect  in  which  it  came  be- 
fore us  at  the  first,  due  to  the  season,  to  atmospheric 
and  sunlight  effects,  to  some  human  interest,  or  to  a 
conjunction  of  several  favourable  circumstances;  we 

21 


Afoot  in  England 

know  we  can  never  see  it  again  in  that  aspect  and  with 
that  precise  feeling. 

On  this  account  I  am  shy  of  revisiting  the  places 
where  I  have  experienced  the  keenest  delight.  For 
example,  I  have  no  desire  to  revisit  that  small  ancient 
town  among  the  hills,  described  in  the  last  chapter; 
to  go  on  a  Sunday  evening  through  that  narrow  gorge, 
filled  with  the  musical  roar  of  the  church  bells;  to 
leave  that  great  sound  behind  and  stand  again  listen- 
ing to  the  marvellous  echo  from  the  wooded  hill  on 
the  other  side  of  the  valley.  Nor  would  I  care  to  go 
again  in  search  of  that  small  ancient  lost  church  in 
the  forest.  It  would  not  be  early  April  with  the  clear 
sunbeams  shining  through  the  old  leafless  oaks  on  the 
floor  of  fallen  yellow  leaves  with  the  cuckoo  fluting 
before  his  time;  nor  would  that  straggling  procession 
of  villagers  appear,  headed  by  an  old  man  in  a  smock 
frock  with  a  big  book  in  his  hand;  nor  would  I  hear 
for  the  first  time  the  strange  history  of  the  church 
which  so  enchanted  me. 

I  will  here  give  an  account  of  yet  another  of  the 
many  well-remembered  delightful  spots  which  I  would 
not  revisit,  nor  even  look  upon  again  if  I  could  avoid 
doing  so  by  going  several  miles  out  of  my  way. 

It  was  green  open  country  in  the  west  of  England 
— very  far  west,  although  on  the  east  side  of  the  Tam- 
ar — in  a  beautiful  spot  remote  from  railroads  and 
large  towns,  and  the  road  by  which  I  was  travelling 
(on  this  occasion  on  a  bicycle)  ran  or  serpentined 
along  the  foot  of  a  range  of  low  round  hills  on  my 
right  hand,  while  on  my  left  I  had  a  green  valley  with 

22 


On  Going  Back 

other  low  round  green  hills  beyond  It.  The  valley  had 
a  marshy  stream  with  sedgy  margins  and  occasional 
clumps  of  alder  and  willow  trees.  It  was  the  end  of  a 
hot  midsummer  day;  the  sun  went  down  a  vast  globe 
of  crimson  fire  In  a  crystal  clear  sky;  and  as  I  was 
going  east  I  was  obliged  to  dismount  and  stand  still 
to  watch  Its  setting.  When  the  great  red  disc  had 
gone  down  behind  the  green  world  I  resumed  my  way 
but  went  slowly,  then  slower  still,  the  better  to  enjoy 
the  delicious  coolness  which  came  from  the  moist 
valley  and  the  beauty  of  the  evening  In  that  solitary 
place  which  I  had  never  looked  on  before.  Nor  was 
there  any  need  to  hurry;  I  had  but  three  or  four  miles 
to  go  to  the  small  old  town  where  I  intended  passing 
the  night.  By  and  by  the  winding  road  led  me  down 
close  to  the  stream  at  a  point  where  it  broadened  to 
a  large  still  pool.  This  was  the  ford,  and  on  the 
other  side  was  a  small  rustic  village,  consisting  of  a 
church,  two  or  three  farm-houses  with  their  barns 
and  outbuildings,  and  a  few  ancient-looking  stone 
cottages  with  thatched  roofs.  But  the  church  was  the 
main  thing;  it  was  a  noble  building  with  a  very  fine 
tower,  and  from  Its  size  and  beauty  I  concluded  that 
It  was  an  ancient  church  dating  back  to  the  time  when 
there  was  a  passion  in  the  West  Country  and  in  many 
parts  of  England  of  building  these  great  fanes  even 
in  the  remotest  and  most  thinly  populated  parishes. 
In  this  I  was  mistaken  through  having  seen  it  at  a 
distance  from  the  other  side  of  the  ford  after  the 
sun  had  set. 

Never,  I  thought,  had  I  seen  a  lovelier  village  with 

23 


Afoot  in  England 

its  old  picturesque  cottages  shaded  by  ancient  oaks  and 
elms,  and  the  great  church  with  its  stately  tower  look- 
ing dark  against  the  luminous  western  sky.  Dis- 
mounting again  I  stood  for  some  time  admiring  the 
scene,  wishing  that  I  could  make  that  village  my  home 
for  the  rest  of  my  life,  conscious  at  the  same  time 
that  is  was  the  mood,  the  season,  the  magical  hour 
which  made  it  seem  so  enchanting.  Presently  a 
young  man,  the  first  human  figure  that  presented 
itself  to  my  sight,  appeared,  mounted  on  a  big  cart- 
horse and  leading  a  second  horse  by  a  halter,  and 
rode  down  into  the  pool  to  bathe  the  animals'  legs 
and  give  them  a  drink.  He  was  a  sturdy-looking 
young  fellow  with  a  sun-browned  face,  in  earth- 
coloured,  working  clothes,  with  a  small  cap  stuck  on  the 
back  of  his  round  curly  head;  he  probably  imagined 
himself  not  a  bad-looking  young  man,  for  while  his 
horses  were  drinking  he  laid  over  on  the  broad  bare 
back  and  bending  down  studied  his  own  reflection 
in  the  bright  water.  Then  an  old  woman  came  out 
of  a  cottage  close  by,  and  began  talking  to*  him  in 
her  West  Country  dialect  in  a  thin  high-pitched 
cracked  voice.  Their  talking  was  the  only  sound  in 
the  village;  so  silent  was  it  that  all  the  rest  of  its 
inhabitants  might  have  been  in  bed  and  fast  asleep; 
then,  the  conversation  ended,  the  young  man  rode  out 
with  a  great  splashing  and  the  old  woman  turned  into 
her  cottage  again,  and  I  was  left  m  solitude. 

Still  I  lingered:  I  could  not  go  just  yet;  the 
chances  were  that  I  should  never  again  see  that  sweet 
village  in  that  beautiful  aspect  at  the  twilight  hour. 

24 


On  Going  Back 

For  now  it  came  into  my  mind  that  I  could  not  very 
well   settle   there   for   the   rest  of  my  life;   I   could 
not,  in  fact,   tie  myself  to  any  place  without  sacri- 
ficing   certain    other    advantages    I    possessed;    and 
the  main  thing  was  that  by  taking  root  I  should  de- 
prive myself  of  the  chance  of  looking  on  still  other 
beautiful  scenes  and  experiencing  other  sweet  surprises. 
I  was  wishing  that  I  had  come  a  little  earlier  on  the 
scene   to  have  had  time  to  borrow   the  key  of  the 
church  and  get  a  sight  of  the  interior,  when  all  at 
once  I  heard  a  shrill  voice  and  a  boy  appeared  run- 
ning across  the  wide  green  space  of  the  churchyard. 
A  second  boy  followed,  then  another,  then  still  others, 
and  I  saw  that  they  were  going  into  the  church  by 
the  side  door.     They  were  choir-boys  going  to  prac- 
tice.    The  church  was  open  then,  and  late  as  it  was 
I  could  have  half  an  hour  inside  before  it  was  dark! 
The  stream  was  spanned  by  an  old  stone  bridge  above 
the  ford,  and  going  over  it  I  at  once  made  my  way 
to  the  great  building,  but  even  before  entering  it  I 
discovered  that  it  possessed  an  organ  of  extraordinary 
power  and  that  someone  was  performing  on  it  with 
a   vengeance.     Inside   the   noise   was  tremendous — a 
bigger  noise  from  an  organ,  it  seemed  to  me,  than  I 
had  ever  heard  before,  even  at  the  Albert  Hall  and  the 
Crystal  Palace,  but  even  more  astonishing  than  the 
uproar  was  the  sight  that  met  my  eyes.     The  boys, 
nine  or  ten  sturdy  little  rustics  with  round  sunburnt 
West  Country  faces,  were  playing  the  roughest  game 
ever  witnessed  in  a  church.     Some  were  engaged  in  a 
sort  of  flying  fight,  madly  pursuing  one  another  up 

25 


Afoot  in  England 

and  down  the  aisles  and  over  the  pews,  and  whenever 
one  overtook  another  he  would  seize  hold  of  him  and 
they  would  struggle  together  until  one  was  thrown 
and    received    a    vigorous    pommelling.     Those    who 
were  not  fighting  were  dancing  to  the  music.     It  was 
great  fun  to  them,  and  they  were  shouting  and  laughing 
their   loudest  only  not   a    sound   of   it   all   could  be 
heard  on  account  of  the  thunderous  roar  of  the  organ 
which  filled  and  seemed  to  make  the  whole  building 
tremble.     The  boys  took  no  notice  of  me,  and  seeing 
that  there  was  a  singularly  fine  west  window,  I  went  to 
it  and  stood  there  some  time  with  my  back  to  the 
game  which  was  going  on  at  the  other  end  of  the 
building,  admiring  the  beautiful  colours  and  trying  to 
make  out  the  subjects  depicted.     In  the  centre  part, 
lit  by  the  after-glow  in  the  sky  to  a  wonderful  brilli- 
ance, was  the  figure  of  a  saint,  a  lovely  young  woman 
in  a  blue  robe  with  an  abundance  of  loose  golden-red 
hair  and  an  aureole  about  her  head.     Her  pale  face 
wore  a  sweet  and  placid  expression,  and  her  eyes  of 
a  pure  forget-me-not  blue  were  looking  straight  into 
mine.     As  I  stood  there  the  music,  or  noise,  ceased 
and  a  very  profound  silence  followed — not  a  giggle, 
not  a  whisper  from  the  outrageous  young  barbarians, 
and  not  a  sound  of  the  organist  or  of  anyone  speaking 
to  them.     Presently  I  became  conscious  of  some  per- 
son standing  almost  but  not  quite  abreast  of  me,  and 
turning  sharply  I  found  a  clergyman  at  my  side.     He 
was  the  vicar,  the  person  who  had  been  letting  him- 
self go  on  the  organ;  a  slight  man  with  a  handsome, 
pale,  ascetic  face,  clean-shaven,  very  dark-eyed,  look- 

26 


On  Going  Back 

ing  more  like  an  Italian  monk  or  priest  than  an  Eng- 
lish clergyman.  But  although  rigidly  ecclesiastic  in 
his  appearance  and  dress,  there  was  something 
curiously  engaging  in  him,  along  with  a  subtle  look 
which  it  was  not  easy  to  fathom.  There  was  a  light 
in  his  dark  eyes  which  reminded  me  of  a  flame  seen 
through  a  smoked  glass  or  a  thin  black  veil,  and  a 
slight  restless  movement  about  the  corners  of  his 
mouth  as  if  a  smile  was  just  on  the  point  of  breaking 
out.  But  it  never  quite  came;  he  kept  his  gravity 
even  when  he  said  things  which  would  have  gone  very 
well  with  a  smile. 

"I  see,"  he  spoke,  and  his  penetrating  musical  voice 
had,  too,  like  his  eyes  and  mouth,  an  expression  of 
mystery  in  it,  "that  you  are  admiring  our  beautiful 
west  window,  especially  the  figure  in  the  centre.  It 
is  quite  new — everything  is  new  here — the  church 
itself  was  only  built  a  few  years  ago.  This  window 
is  its  chief  glory:  it  was  done  by  a  good  artist — he 
has  done  some  of  the  most  admired  windows  of  recent 
years;  and  the  centre  figure  is  supposed  to  be  a 
portrait  of  our  generous  patroness.  At  all  events 
she  sat  for  it  to  him.  You  have  probably  heard  of 
Lady  Y ?" 

"What!"  I  exclaimed.  "Lady  Y— :  that  funny 
old  woman!" 

"No — middle-aged,"  he  corrected,  a  little  frigidly 
and  perhaps  a  little  mockingly  at  the  same  time. 

"Very  well,  middle-aged  if  you  like;  I  don't  know 
her  personally.  One  hears  about  her;  but  I  did  not 
know  she  had  a  place  in  these  parts." 

27 


Afoot  in  England 

"She  owns  most  of  this  parish  and  has  done  so 
much  for  us  that  we  can  very  well  look  leniently  on  a 
little  weakness — her  wish  that  the  future  inhabitants 
of  the  place  shall  not  remember  her  as  a  middle-aged 
woman  not  remarkable  for  good  looks — 'funny,'  as 
you  just  now  said." 

He  was  wonderfully  candid,  I  thought.  But  what 
extraordinary  benefits  had  she  bestowed  on  them,  I 
asked,  to  enable  them  to  regard,  or  to  say,  that  this 
picture  of  a  very  beautiful  young  female  was  her 
likeness ! 

"Why,"  he  said,  "the  church  would  not  have  been 
built  but  for  her.  We  were  astonished  at  the  sum 
she  offered  to  contribute  towards  the  work,  and  at 
once  set  about  pulling  the  small  old  church  down  so 
as  to  rebuild  on  the  exact  site." 

"Do  you  know,"  I  returned,  "I  can't  help  saying 
something  you  will  not  like  to  hear.  It  is  a  very  fine 
church,  no  doubt,  but  it  always  angers  me  to  hear  of 
a  case  like  this  where  some  ancient  church  is  pulled 
down  and  a  grand  new  one  raised  in  its  place  to  the 
honour  and  glory  of  some  rich  parvenu  with  or  with- 
out a  brand  new  title." 

"You  are  not  hurting  me  in  the  least,"  he  replied, 
with  that  change  which  came  from  time  to  time  in 
his  eyes  as  if  the  flame  behind  the  screen  had  suddenly 
grown  brighter.  "I  agree  with  every  word  you  say; 
the  meanest  church  in  the  land  should  be  cherished 
as  long  as  it  will  hold  together.  But  unfortunately 
ours  had  to  come  down.  It  was  very  old  and  decayed 
past  mending.     The  floor  was  six  feet  below  the  level 

28 


On  Going  Back 

of  the  surrounding  ground  and  frightfully  damp.  It 
had  been  examined  over  and  over  again  by  experts 
during  the  past  forty  or  fifty  years,  and  from  the 
first  they  pronounced  it  a  hopeless  case,  so  that  it  was 
never  restored.  The  interior,  right  down  to  the 
time  of  demolition,  was  like  that  of  most  country 
churches  of  a  century  ago,  with  the  old  black  worm- 
eaten  pews,  in  which  the  worshippers  shut  themselves 
up  as  if  in  their  own  houses  or  castles.  On  account 
of  the  damp  we  were  haunted  by  toads.  You  smile, 
sir,  but  it  was  no  smiling  matter  for  me  during  my 
first  year  as  vicar,  when  I  discovered  that  it  was  the 
custom  here  to  keep  pet  toads  in  the  church.  It 
sounds  strange  and  funny,  no  doubt,  but  it  is  a  fact 
that  all  the  best  people  in  the  parish  had  one  of  these 
creatures,  and  it  was  customary  for  the  ladies  to 
bring  it  a  weekly  supply  of  provisions — bits  of  meat, 
hard-boiled  eggs  chopped  up,  and  earth-worms,  and 
whatever  else  they  fancied  it  would  like — in  their 
reticules.  The  toads,  I  suppose,  knew  when  it  was 
Sunday — their  feeding  day;  at  all  events  they  would 
crawl  out  of  their  holes  in  the  floor  under  the  pews 
to  receive  their  rations — and  caresses.  The  toads  got 
on  my  nerves  with  rather  unpleasant  consequences. 
I  preached  in  a  way  which  my  listeners  did  not 
appreciate  or  properly  understand,  particularly  when 
I  took  for  my  subject  our  duty  towards  the  lower  ani- 
mals, including  reptiles." 

*'Batrachians,"  I  interposed,  echoing  as  well  as  I 
could  the  tone  in  which  he  had  rebuked  me  before. 

"Very  well,   batrachians — I    am  not   a   naturalist. 

29 


Afoot  in  England 

But  the  Impression  created  on  their  minds  appeared 
to  be  that  I  was  rather  an  odd  person  in  the  pulpit. 
When  the  time  came  to  pull  the  old  church  down  the 
toad-keepers  were  bidden  to  remove  their  pets,  which 
they  did  with  considerable  reluctance.  What  became 
of  them  I  do  not  know — I  never  inquired.  I  used  to 
have  a  careful  inspection  made  of  the  floor  to  make 
sure  that  these  creatures  were  not  put  back  in  the  new 
building,  and  I  am  happy  to  think  it  is  not  suited 
to  their  habits.  The  floors  are  very  well  cemented, 
and  are  dry  and  clean.'^ 

Having  finished  his  story  he  invited  me  to  go  to 
the  parsonage  and  get  some  refreshment.  "I  dare- 
say you  are  thirsty,"  he  said. 

But  it  was  getting  late;  it  was  almost  dark  in  the 
church  by  now,  although  the  figure  of  the  golden- 
haired  saint  still  glowed  in  the  window  and  gazed 
at  us  out  of  her  blue  eyes.  "I  must  not  waste 
more  of  your  time,"  I  added.  "There  are  your 
boys  still  patiently  waiting  to  begin  their  practice — 
such  nice  quiet  fellows!" 

"Yes,  they  are,"  he  returned  a  little  bitterly,  a 
sudden  accent  of  weariness  in  his  voice  and  no  trace 
now  of  what  I  had  seen  in  his  countenance  a  little 
while  ago — the  light  that  shone  and  brightened 
behind  the  dark  eye  and  the  little  play  about  the 
corners  of  the  mouth  as  of  dimpling  motions  on  the 
surface  of  a  pool. 

And  in  that  new  guise,  or  disguise,  I  left  him,  the 
austere  priest  with  nothing  to  suggest  the  whimsical 
or  grotesque  In  his  cold  ascetic  face.     Recrossing  the 

30 


On  Going  Back 

bridge  I  stood  a  little  time  and  looked  once  more  at 
the   noble   church   tower   standing   dark   against   the 
clear  amber-coloured  sky,  and  said  to  myself:  *'Why, 
this  Is  one  of  the  oddest  Incidents  of  my  life!     Not 
that  I  have  seen  or  heard  anything  very  wonderful — 
just  a  small  rustic  village,  one  of  a  thousand  In  the 
land;   a  big  new  church  in  which  some  person  was 
playing  rather  madly  on  the  organ,  a  set  of  unruly 
choir-boys ;  a  handsome  stained-glass  west  window,  and, 
finally,  a  nice  little  chat  with  the  vicar."     It  was  not  in 
these  things;  it  was  a  sense  of  something  strange  in 
the  mind,  of  something  in  some  way  unlike  all  other 
places    and   people    and   experiences.     The    sensation 
was  like  that  of  the  reader  who  becomes  absorbed  in 
Henry  Newbolt's  romance  of  The  Old  Country,  who 
identifies  himself  with  the  hero  and  unconsciously,  or 
without  quite  knowing  how,   slips  back  out  of  this 
modern  world  into  that  of  half  a  thousand  years  ago. 
It  Is  the  same  familiar  green  land  in  which  he  finds 
himself — the  same  old  country  and  the  same  sort  of 
people  with  feelings  and  habits  of  life  and  thought 
unchangeable  as  the  colour  of  grass  and  flowers,  the 
songs  of  birds  and  the  smell  of  the  earth,  yet  with  a 
difference.     I  recognized  It  chiefly  in  the  parish  priest 
I    had    been    conversing    with;    for    one    thing,    his 
mediaeval  mind  evidently  did  not  regard  a  sense  of 
humour  and  of  the  grotesque  as  out  of  place  in  or  on 
a  sacred  building.     If  it  had  been  lighter  I  should  have 
looked   at  the   roof  for   an  effigy  of   a   semi-human 
toad-like    creature    smiling    down    mockingly    at    the 
worshippers  as  they  came  and  went. 

31 


Afoot  in  England 

On  departing  it  struck  me  that  it  would  assuredly 
be  a  mistake  to  return  to  this  village  and  look  at  it 
again  by  the  common  lights  of  day.  No,  it  was  better 
to  keep  the  impressions  I  had  gathered  unspoilt; 
even  to  believe,  if  I  could,  that  no  such  place  existed, 
but  that  it  had  existed  exactly  as  I  had  found  it,  even 
to  the  unruly  choir-boys,  the  ascetic-looking  priest 
with  a  strange  Hght  in  his  eyes,  and  the  worshippers 
who  kept  pet  toads  in  the  church.  They  were  not 
precisely  like  people  of  the  twentieth  century.  As 
for  the  eccentric  middle-aged  or  elderly  person  whose 
portrait  adorned  the  west  window,  she  was  not  the 
lady  I  knew  something  about,  but  another  older  Lady 

Y ,  who  flourished  some  six  or  seven  centuries 

ago. 


32 


Chapter  Three:   Walking  and 
Cycling 

We  know  that  there  cannot  be  progression  without 
retrogression,  or  gain  with  no  corresponding  loss; 
and  often  on  my  wheel,  when  flying  along  the  roads 
at  a  reckless  rate  of  very  nearly  nine  miles  an  hour, 
I  have  regretted  that  time  of  limitations,  galling  to  me 
then,  when  I  was  compelled  to  go  on  foot.  I  am  a 
walker  still,  but  with  other  means  of  getting  about  I 
do  not  feel  so  native  to  the  earth  as  formerly.  That  is 
a  loss.  Yet  a  poorer  walker  it  would  have  been  hard 
to  find,  and  on  even  my  most  prolonged  wanderings 
the  end  of  each  day  usually  brought  extreme  fatigue. 
This,  too,  although  my  only  companion  was  slow — 
slower  than  the  poor  proverbial  snail  or  tortoise — and 
I  would  leave  her  half  a  mile  or  so  behind  to  force  my 
way  through  unkept  hedges,  climb  hills,  and  explore 
woods  and  thickets  to  converse  with  every  bird  and 
shy  little  beast  and  scaly  creature  I  could  discover. 
But  mark  what  follows.  In  the  late  afternoon  I  would 
be  back  in  the  road  or  footpath,  satisfied  to  go  slow, 
then  slower  still,  until  the  snail  in  woman  shape  would 
be  obliged  to  slacken  her  pace  to  keep  me  company, 
and  even  to  stand  still  at  intervals  to  give  me  need- 
ful rest. 

33 


Afoot  in  England 

But  there  were  compensations,  and  one,  perhaps 
the  best  of  all,  was  that  this  method  of  seeing  the 
country  made  us  more  intimate  with  the  people  we 
met  and  stayed  with.  They  were  mostly  poor  people, 
cottagers  in  small  remote  villages;  and  we,  too,  were 
poor,  often  footsore,  in  need  of  their  ministrations, 
and  nearer  to  them  on  that  account  than  if  we  had 
travelled  in  a  more  comfortable  way.  I  can  recall 
a  hundred  little  adventures  we  met  with  during  those 
wanderings,  when  we  walked  day  after  day,  without 
map  or  guide-book  as  our  custom  was,  not  knowing 
where  the  evening  would  find  us,  but  always  confident 
that  the  people  to  whom  it  would  fall  in  the  end  to 
shelter  us  would  prove  interesting  to  know  and  would 
show  us  a  kindness  that  money  could  not  pay  for. 
Of  these  hundred  little  incidents  let  me  relate  one. 

It  was  near  the  end  of  a  long  summer  day  when  we 
arrived  at  a  small  hamlet  of  about  a  dozen  cottages  on 
the  edge  of  an  extensive  wood — a  forest  it  is  called; 
and,  coming  to  it,  we  said  that  here  we  must  stay, 
even  if  we  had  to  spend  the  night  sitting  in  a  porch. 
The  men  and  women  we  talked  to  all  assured  us  that 
they  did  not  know  of  anyone  who  could  take  us  in, 
but  there  was  Mr.  Brownjohn,  who  kept  the  shop, 
and  was  the  right  person  to  apply  to.  Accordingly 
we  went  to  the  little  general  shop  and  heard  that 
Mr.  Brownjohn  was  not  at  home.  His  housekeeper, 
a  fat,  dark,  voluble  woman  with  prominent  black  eyes, 
who  minded  the  shop  in  the  master's  absence,  told  us 
that  Mr.  Brownjohn  had  gone  to  a  neighbouring 
farm-house  on  important  business,  but  was  expected 

34 


Walking  and  Cycling 

back  shortly.  We  waited,  and  by  and  by  he  returned, 
a  shabbily  dressed,  weak-looking  little  old  man,  with 
pale  blue  eyes  and  thin  yellowish  white  hair.  He 
could  not  put  us  up,  he  said,  he  had  no  room  in  his 
cottage;  there  was  nothing  for  us  but  to  go  on  to 
the  next  place,  a  village  three  miles  distant,  on  the 
chance  of  finding  a  bed  there.  We  assured  him  that 
we  could  go  no  further,  and  after  revolving  the 
matter  a  while  longer  he  again  said  that  we  could  not 
stay,  as  there  was  not  a  room  to  be  had  in  the  place 
since  poor  Mrs.  Flowerdew  had  her  trouble.  She 
had  a  spare  room  and  used  to  take  in  a  lodger 
occasionally,  and  a  good  handy  woman  she  was  too; 
but  now — no,  Mrs.  Flowerdew  could  not  take  us  in. 
We  questioned  him,  and  he  said  that  no  one  had  died 
there  and  there  had  been  no  illness.  They  were  all 
quite  well  at  Mrs.  Flowerdew's;  the  trouble  was  of 
another  kind.  There  was  no  more  to  be  said  about  it. 
As  nothing  further  could  be  got  out  of  him  we  went 
in  search  of  Mrs.  Flowerdew  herself,  and  found  her  in 
a  pretty  vine-clad  cottage.  She  was  a  young  woman, 
very  poorly  dressed,  with  a  pleasing  but  careworn  face, 
and  she  had  four  small,  bright,  healthy,  happy-faced 
children.  They  were  all  grouped  round  her  as  she 
stood  in  the  doorway  to  speak  to  us,  and  they  too  were 
poorly  dressed  and  poorly  shod.  When  we  told  our 
tale  she  appeared  ready  to  burst  into  tears.  Oh,  how 
unfortunate  it  was  that  she  could  not  take  us  in!  It 
would  have  made  her  so  happy,  and  the  few  shillings 
would  have  been  such  a  blessing!  But  what  could  she 
do  now — the  landlord's  agent  had  put  in  a  distress 

35 


Afoot  in  England 

and  carried  off  and  sold  all  her  best  things.  Every 
stick  out  of  her  nice  spare  room  had  been  taken  from 
them !     Oh,  it  was  cruel ! 

As  we  wished  to  hear  more  she  told  us  the  whole 
story.  They  had  got  behindhand  with  the  rent,  but 
that  had  often  been  the  case,  only  this  time  it  happened 
that  the  agent  wanted  a  cottage  for  a  person  he 
wished  to  befriend,  and  so  gave  them  notice  to  quit. 
But  her  husband  was  a  high-spirited  man  and  deter- 
mined to  stick  to  his  rights,  so  he  informed  the  agent 
that  he  refused  to  move  until  he  received  compen- 
sation for  his  improvements. 

Questioned  about  these  improvements,  she  led  us 
through  to  the  back  to  show  us  the  ground,  about 
half  an  acre  in  extent,  part  of  which  was  used  as  a 
paddock  for  the  donkey,  and  on  the  other  part  there 
were  about  a  dozen  rather  sickly-looking  young  fruit 
trees.  Her  husband,  she  said,  had  planted  the  orchard 
and  kept  the  fence  of  the  paddock  in  order,  and  they 
refused  to  compensate  him!  Then  she  took  us  up 
to  the  spare  room,  empty  of  furniture,  the  floor  thick 
with  dust.  The  bed,  table,  chairs,  washhandstand, 
toilet  service — the  things  she  had  been  so  long  strug- 
gling to  get  together,  saving  her  money  for  months 
and  months,  and  making  so  many  journeys  to  the  town 
to  buy — all,  all  he  had  taken  away  and  sold  for  almost 
nothing ! 

Then,  actually  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  she  said  that 
now  we  knew  why  she  couldn't  take  us  in — why  she 
had  to  seem  so  unkind. 

But  we  are  going  to  stay,  we  told  her.     It  was  a 

36 


Walking  and  Cycling 

very  good  room;  she  could  surely  get  a  few  things  to 
put  in  it,  and  in  the  meantime  we  would  go  and  forage 
for  provisions  to  last  us  till  Monday. 

It  is  odd  to  find  how  easy  it  is  to  get  what  one 
wants  by  simply  taking  it!  At  first  she  was  amazed 
at  our  decision,  then  she  was  delighted  and  said  she 
would  go  out  to  her  neighbours  and  try  to  borrow  all 
that  was  wanted  in  the  way  of  furniture  and  bedding. 
Then  we  returned  to  Mr.  Brownjohn's  to  buy  bread, 
bacon,  and  groceries,  and  he  in  turn  sent  us  to  Mr. 
Marling  for  vegetables.  Mr.  Marling  heard  us,  and 
soberly  taking  up  a  spade  and  other  implements  led 
us  out  to  his  garden  and  dug  us  a  mess  of  potatoes 
while  we  waited.  In  the  meantime  good  Mrs.  Flower- 
dew  had  not  been  idle,  and  we  formed  the  idea  that 
her  neighbours  must  have  been  her  debtors  for  unnum- 
bered little  kindnesses,  so  eager  did  they  now  appear  to 
do  her  a  good  turn.  Out  of  one  cottage  a  woman  was 
seen  coming  burdened  with  a  big  roll  of  bedding;  from 
others  children  issued  bearing  cane  chairs,  basin  and 
ewer,  and  so  on,  and  when  we  next  looked  into  our 
room  we  found  it  swept  and  scrubbed,  mats  on  the 
floor,  and  quite  comfortably  furnished. 

After  our  meal  in  the  small  parlour,  which  had 
been  given  up  to  us,  the  family  having  migrated  into 
the  kitchen,  we  sat  for  an  hour  by  the  open  window 
looking  out  on  the  dim  forest  and  saw  the  moon  rise — 
a  great  golden  globe  above  the  trees — and  listened 
to  the  reeling  of  the  nightjars.  So  many  were  the 
birds,  reeling  on  all  sides,  at  various  distances,  that 
the  evening  air  seemed  full  of  their  sounds,  far  and 

37 


Afoot  in  England 

near,  like  many  low,  tremulous,  sustained  notes  blown 
on  reeds,  rising  and  falling,  overlapping  and  mingling. 
And  presently  from  the  bushes  close  by,  just  beyond 
the  weedy,  forlorn  little  "orchard,"  sounded  the  rich, 
full,  throbbing  prelude  to  the  nightingale's  song,  and 
that  powerful  melody  that  in  its  purity  and  brilliance 
invariably  strikes  us  with  surprise  seemed  to  shine 
out,  as  it  were,  against  the  background  of  that  diffused, 
mysterious  purring  of  the  nightjars,  even  as  the  golden 
disc  of  the  moon  shone  against  and  above  the  darken- 
ing skies  and  dusky  woods. 

And  as  we  sat  there,  gazing  and  listening,  a  human 
voice  came  out  of  the  night — a  call  prolonged  and 
modulated  like  the  coo-ee  of  the  Australian  bush,  far 
off  and  faint;  but  the  children  in  the  kitchen  heard  it 
at  the  same  time,  for  they  too  had  been  listening,  and 
instantly  went  mad  with  excitement. 

"Father!"  they  all  screamed  together.  "Father's 
coming!"  and  out  they  rushed  and  away  they  fled  down 
the  darkening  road,  exerting  their  full  voices  in  shrill 
answering  cries. 

We  were  anxious  to  see  this  unfortunate  man,  who 
was  yet  happy  in  a  loving  family.  He  had  gone 
early  in  the  morning  in  his  donkey-cart  to  the  little 
market  town,  fourteen  miles  away,  to  get  the  few 
necessaries  they  could  afford  to  buy.  Doubtless  they 
would  be  very  few.  We  had  not  long  to  wait,  as 
the  white  donkey  that  drew  the  cart  had  put  on  a 
tremendous  spurt  at  the  end,  notwithstanding  that 
the  four  youngsters  had  climbed  in  to  add  to  his 
burden.     But  what  was  our  surprise  to  behold  in  the 

38 


Walking  and  Cycling 

charioteer  a  tall,  gaunt,  grey-faced  old  man  with  long 
white  hair  and  beard!  He  must  have  been  seventy, 
that  old  man  with  a  young  wife  and  four  happy 
bright-eyed  little  children! 

We  could  understand  it  better  when  he  finally 
settled  down  in  his  corner  in  the  kitchen  and  began 
to  relate  the  events  of  the  day,  addressing  his  poor 
little  wife,  now  busy  darning  or  patching  an  old 
garment,  while  the  children,  clustered  at  his  knee, 
listened  as  to  a  fairy  tale.  Certainly  this  white-haired 
man  had  not  grown  old  in  mind;  he  was  keenly 
interested  in  all  he  saw  and  heard,  and  he  had  seen 
and  heard  much  in  the  little  market  town  that  day. 
Cattle  and  pigs  and  sheep  and  shepherds  and  sheep- 
dogs; farmers,  shopkeepers,  dealers,  publicans,  tramps, 
and  gentlefolks  in  carriages  and  on  horseback;  shops, 
too,  with  beautiful  new  things  in  the  windows; 
millinery,  agricultural  implements,  flowers  and  fruit 
and  vegetables;  toys  and  books  and  sweeties  of  all 
colours.  And  the  people  he  had  met  on  the  road 
and  at  market,  and  what  they  had  said  to  him 
about  the  weather  and  their  business  and  the  pros- 
pects of  the  year,  how  their  wives  and  children  were, 
and  the  clever  jokes  they  had  made,  and  his  own 
jokes,  which  were  the  cleverest  of  all.  If  he  had 
just  returned  from  Central  Africa  or  from  Thibet 
he  could  not  have  had  more  to  tell  them  nor  told 
It  with  greater  zest. 

We  went  to  our  room,  but  until  the  small  hours 
the  wind  of  the  old  traveller's  talk  could  still  be 
heard  at  Intervals   from   the  kitchen,   mingled  with 

39 


Afoot  in  England 

occasional  shrill  explosions  of  laughter  from  the  lis- 
tening children. 

It  happened  that  on  the  following  day,  spent  in 
idling  in  the  forest  and  about  the  hamlet,  conversing 
with  the  cottagers,  we  were  told  that  our  old  man 
was  a  bit  of  a  humbug;  that  he  was  a  great  talker, 
with  a  hundred  schemes  for  the  improvement  of  his 
fortunes,  and,  incidently,  for  the  benefit  of  his 
neighbours  and  the  world  at  large;  but  nothing  came 
of  it  all  and  he  was  now  fast  sinking  into  the  lowest 
depths  of  poverty.  Yet  who  would  blame  him? 
'Tis  the  nature  of  the  gorse  to  be  "unprofitably  gay." 
All  that,  however,  is  a  question  for  the  moralist;  the 
point  now  is  that  in  walking,  even  in  that  poor  way, 
when,  on  account  of  physical  weakness,  it  was  often 
a  pain  and  weariness,  there  are  alleviations  which' 
may  be  more  to  us  than  positive  pleasures,  and 
scenes  to  delight  the  eye  that  are  missed  by  the 
wheelman  in  his  haste,  or  but  dimly  seen  or  vaguely 
surmised  in  passing — green  refreshing  nooks  and 
crystal  streamlets,  and  shadowy  woodland  depths  with 
glimpses  of  a  blue  sky  beyond — all  in  the  wilderness 
of  the  human  heart. 


40 


Chapter  Four:  Seeking  a  Shelter 

The  ^'walks''  already  spoken  of,  at  a  time  when  life 
had  little  or  no  other  pleasure  for  us  on  account  of 
poverty  and  ill-health,  were  taken  at  pretty  regular 
intervals  two  or  three  times  a  year.  It  all  depended 
on  our  means ;  In  very  lean  years  there  was  but  one  out- 
ing. It  was  impossible  to  escape  altogether  from  the 
immense  unfriendly  wilderness  of  London  simply  be- 
cause, albeit  "unfriendly,"  it  yet  appeared  to  be  the 
only  place  in  the  wide  world  where  our  poor  little 
talents  could  earn  us  a  few  shillings  a  week  to  live  on. 
Music  and  literature !  but  I  fancy  the  nearest  crossing- 
sweeper  did  better,  and  could  afford  to  give  himself 
a  more  generous  dinner  every  day.  It  occasionally 
happened  that  an  article  sent  to  some  magazine  was 
not  returned,  and  always  after  so  many  rejections  to 
have  one  accepted  and  paid  for  with  a  cheque  worth 
several  pounds  was  a  cause  of  astonishment,  and 
was  as  truly  a  miracle  as  if  the  angel  of  the  sun  had 
compassionately  thrown  us  down  a  handful  of  gold. 
And  out  of  these  little  handfuls  enough  was  some- 
times saved  for  the  country  rambles  at  Easter  and 
Whitsuntide  and  in  the  autumn.  It  was  during 
one  of  these  Easter  walks,  when  seeking  for  a  resting- 
place  for  the  night,  that  we  met  with  another  adven- 
ture worth  telling. 

41 


Afoot  in  England 

We  had  got  to  that  best  part  of  Surrey  not  yet 
colonized  by  wealthy  men  from  the  City,  but  where 
all  things  are  as  they  were  of  old,  when,  late  in  the 
day,  we  came  to  a  pleasant  straggling  village  with  one 
street  a  mile  long.  Here  we  resolved  to  stay,  and 
walked  the  length  of  the  street  making  inquiries,  but 
were  told  by  every  person  we  spoke  to  that  the  only 
place  we  could  stay  at  was  the  inn — the  "White  Hart." 
When  we  said  we  preferred  to  stay  at  a  cottage  they 
smiled  a  pitying  smile.  No,  there  was  no  such  place. 
But  we  were  determined  not  to  go  to  the  inn,  although 
it  had  a  very  inviting  look,  and  was  well  placed  with 
no  other  house  near  it,  looking  on  the  wide  village 
green  with  ancient  trees  shading  the  road  on  either 
side. 

Having  passed  it  and  got  to  the  end  of  the  village, 
we  turned  and  walked  back,  still  making  vain  in- 
quiries, passing  it  again,  and  when  once  more  at  the 
starting-point  we  were  in  despair  when  we  spied  a 
man  coming  along  the  middle  of  the  road  and  went 
out  to  meet  him  to  ask  the  weary  question  for  the 
last  time.  His  appearance  was  rather  odd  as  he  came 
towards  us  on  that  blowy  March  evening  with  dust 
and  straws  flying  past  and  the  level  sun  shining  full 
on  him.  He  was  tall  and  slim,  with  a  large  round 
smooth  face  and  big  pale-blue  innocent-looking  eyes, 
and  he  walked  rapidly  but  in  a  pecuhar  jerky  yet 
shambling  manner,  swinging  and  tossing  his  legs  and 
arms  about.  Moving  along  in  this  disjointed  manner 
in  his  loose  fluttering  clothes  he  put  one  in  mind  of 

42 


Seeking  a  Shelter 

2i  big  flimsy  newspaper  blown  along  the  road  by  the 
wind. 

This  unpromising-looking  person  at  once  told  us 
that  there  was  a  place  where  we  could  stay;  he  knew 
it  well,  for  it  happened  to  be  his  father's  house  and 
his  own  home.  It  was  away  at  the  other  end  of  the 
village.  His  people  had  given  accommodation  to 
strangers  before,  and  would  be  glad  to  receive  us 
and  make  us  comfortable. 

Surprised,  and  a  little  doubtful  of  our  good 
fortune,  I  asked  my  young  man  if  he  could  explain 
the  fact  that  so  many  of  his  neighbours  had  assured 
us  that  no  accommodation  was  to  be  had  in  the 
village  except  at  the  Inn.  He  did  not  make  a  direct 
reply.  He  said  that  the  ways  of  the  villagers  were 
not  the  ways  of  his  people.  He  and  all  his  house 
cherished  only  kind  feelings  towards  their  neigh- 
bours; whether  those  feelings  were  returned  or  not, 
it  was  not  for  him  to  say.  And  there  was  some- 
thing else.  A  small  appointment  which  would  keep 
a  man  from  want  for  the  term  of  his  natural  life, 
without  absorbing  all  his  time,  had  become  vacant  in 
the  village.  Several  of  the  young  men  in  the  place 
were  anxious  to  have  it;  then  he,  too,  came  forward 
as  a  candidate,  and  all  the  others  jeered  at  him  and 
tried  to  laugh  him  out  of  It.  He  cared  nothing  for 
that,  and  when  the  examination  came  off  he  proved 
the  best  man  and  got  the  place.  He  had  fought  his 
fight  and  had  overcome  all  his  enemies;  if  they  did 
not  like  him  any  the  better  for  his  victory,  and  did 

43 


Afoot  in  England 

and  said  little  things  to  injure  him,  he  did  not  mind 
much,  he  could  afford  to  forgive  them. 

Having  finished  his  story,  he  said  good-bye,  and 
went  his  way,  blown,  as  it  were,  along  the  road  by 
the  wind. 

We  were  now  very  curious  to  see  the  other 
members  of  his  family;  they  would,  we  imagined, 
prove  amusing,  if  nothing  better.  They  proved  a 
good  deal  better.  The  house  we  sought,  for  a  house 
it  was,  stood  a  little  way  back  from  the  street  in  a 
large  garden.  It  had  in  former  times  been  an  inn, 
or  farm-house,  possibly  a  manor-house,  and  was  large, 
with  many  small  rooms,  and  short,  narrow,  crooked 
staircases,  half-landings  and  narrow  passages,  and  a 
few  large  rooms,  their  low  ceilings  resting  on  old 
oak  beams,  black  as  ebony.  Outside,  it  was  the  most 
picturesque  and  doubtless  the  oldest  house  in  the 
village;  many-gabled,  with  very  tall  ancient  chim- 
neys, the  roofs  of  red  tiles  mottled  grey  and  yellow 
with  age  and  lichen.  It  was  a  surprise  to  find  a  wood- 
man— for  that  was  what  the  man  was — living  in  such  a 
big  place.  The  woodman  himself,  his  appearance  and 
character,  gave  us  a  second  and  greater  surprise.  He 
was  a  well-shaped  man  of  medium  height;  although 
past  middle  life  he  looked  young,  and  had  no  white 
thread  in  his  raven-black  hair  and  beard.  His  teeth 
were  white  and  even,  and  his  features  as  perfect  as 
I  have  seen  in  any  man.  His  eyes  were  pure  dark 
blue,  contrasting  rather  strangely  with  his  pale  olive 
skin  and  intense  black  hair.  Only  a  woodman,  but 
he  might  have  come  of  one  of  the  oldest  and  best 

44 


Seeking  a  Shelter 

families  in  the  country,  if  there  is  any  connection 
between  good  blood  and  fine  features  and  a  noble 
expression.  Oddly  enough,  his  surname  was  an  un- 
common and  aristocratic  one.  His  wife,  on  the  other 
hand,  although  a  very  good  woman  as  we  found,  had 
a  distinctly  plebeian  countenance.  One  day  she  in- 
formed us  that  she  came  of  a  different  and  better 
class  than  her  husband's.  She  was  the  daughter  of 
a  small  tradesman,  and  had  begun  life  as  a  lady's- 
maid:  her  husband  was  nothing  but  a  labourer;  his 
people  had  been  labourers  for  generations,  con- 
sequently her  marriage  to  him  had  involved  a  con- 
siderable descent  in  the  social  scale.  Hearing  this, 
it  was  hard  to  repress  a  smile. 

The  contrast  between  this  man  and  the  ordinary 
villager  of  his  class  was  as  great  in  manners  and  con- 
versation as  in  features  and  expression.  His  com- 
bined dignity  and  gentleness,  and  apparent  uncon- 
sciousness of  any  caste  difference  between  man  and 
man,  were  astonishing  in  one  who  had  been  a  simple 
toiler  all  his  life. 

There  were  some  grown-up  children,  others  grow- 
ing up,  with  others  that  were  still  quite  small.  The 
boys,  I  noticed,  favoured  their  mother,  and  had 
commonplace  faces;  the  girls  took  after  their  father, 
and  though  their  features  were  not  so  perfect  they 
were  exceptionally  good-looking.  The  eldest  son — 
the  disjointed,  fly-away-looking  young  man  who  had 
conquered  all  his  enemies — had  a  wife  and  child. 
The  eldest  daughter  was  also  married,  and  had  one 
child.     Altogether  the  three  families  numbered  about 

45 


Afoot  in  England 

sixteen  persons,  each  family  having  its  separate  set  of 
rooms,  but  all  dining  at  one  table. 

How  did  they  do  it?  It  seemed  easy  enough  to 
them.  They  were  serious  people  in  a  sense,  although 
always  cheerful  and  sometimes  hilarious  when  together 
of  an  evening,  or  at  their  meals.  But  they  regarded 
life  as  a  serious  matter,  a  state  of  probation;  they 
were  non-smokers,  total  abstainers,  diligent  at  their 
work,  united,  profoundly  religious.  A  fresh  wonder 
came  to  light  when  I  found  that  this  poor  woodman, 
with  so  large  a  family  to  support,  who  spent  ten  or 
twelve  hours  every  day  at  his  outdoor  work,  had  yet 
been  able  out  of  his  small  earnings  to  buy  bricks  and 
other  materials,  and,  assisted  by  his  sons,  to  build  a 
chapel  adjoining  his  house.  Here  he  held  religious 
services  on  Sundays,  and  once  or  twice  of  an  evening 
during  the  week.  These  services  consisted  of  extem- 
pore prayers,  a  short  address,  and  hymns  accompanied 
by  a  harmonium,  which  they  all  appeared  able  to 
play. 

What  his  particular  doctrine  was  I  did  not  inquire, 
nor  did  I  wish  for  any  information  on  that  point. 
Doubtless  he  was  a  Dissenter  of  some  kind  living  in 
a  village  where  there  was  no  chapel;  the  services 
were  for  the  family,  but  were  also  attended  by  a  few 
of  the  villagers  and  some  persons  from  neighbouring 
farms  who  preferred  a  simpler  form  of  worship  to  that 
of  the  Church. 

It  was  not  strange  that  this  little  community  should 
have  been  regarded  with  something  like  disfavour  by 
the  other  villagers.     For  these  others,  man  for  man, 

46 


Seeking  a  Shelter 

made  just  as  much  money,  and  paid  less  rent  for  their 
small  cottages,  and,  furthermore,  received  doles  from 
the  vicar  and  his  well-to-do  parishioners,  yet  they 
could  not  better  their  position,  much  less  afford  the 
good  clothing,  books,  music,  and  other  pleasant  things 
which  the  independent  woodman  bestowed  on  his 
family.  And  they  knew  why.  The  woodman's  very 
presence  in  their  midst  was  a  continual  reproach,  a 
sermon  on  improvidence  and  intemperance,  which 
they  could  not  avoid  hearing  by  thrusting  their  fingers 
into  their  ears. 

During  my  stay  with  these  people  something 
occurred  to  cause  them  a  very  deep  disquiet.  The 
reader  will  probably  smile  when  I  tell  them  what  it 
was.  Awaking  one  night  after  midnight  I  heard 
the  unusual  sound  of  voices  in  earnest  conversation 
in  the  room  below;  this  went  on  until  I  fell  asleep 
again.  In  the  morning  we  noticed  that  our  landlady 
had  a  somewhat  haggard  face,  and  that  the  daughters 
also  had  pale  faces,  with  purple  marks  under  the  eyes, 
as  if  they  had  kept  their  mother  company  in  some 
sorrowful  vigil.  We  were  not  left  long  in  ignorance 
of  the  cause  of  this  cloud.  The  good  woman  asked 
if  we  had  been  much  disturbed  by  the  talking.  I 
answered  that  I  had  heard  voices  and  had  supposed 
that  friends  from  a  distance  had  arrived  overnight 
and  that  they  had  sat  up  talking  to  a  late  hour.  No 
— that  was  not  it,  she  said;  but  someone  had 
arrived  late,  a  son  who  was  sixteen  years  old,  and 
who  had  been  absent  for  some  days  on  a  visit  to 
relations   in   another   county.     When   they   gathered 

47 


Afoot  in  England 

round  him  to  hear  his  news  he  confessed  that  while 
away  he  had  learnt  to  smoke,  and  he  now  wished  them 
to  know  that  he  had  well  considere.d  the  matter,  and 
was  convinced  that  it  was  not  wrong  nor  harmful  to 
smoke,  and  was  determined  not  to  give  up  his 
tobacco.  They  had  talked  to  him — father,  mother, 
brothers,  and  sisters^ — using  every  argument  they  could 
find  or  invent  to  move  him,  until  it  was  day  and 
time  for  the  woodman  to  go  to  his  woods,  and  the 
others  to  their  several  occupations.  But  their  "all- 
night  sitting"  had  been  wasted;  the  stubborn  youth 
had  not  been  convinced  nor  shaken.  When,  after 
morning  prayers,  they  got  up  from  their  knees,  the 
sunlight  shining  in  upon  them,  they  had  made  a  last 
appeal  with  tears  in  their  eyes,  and  he  had  refused 
to  give  the  promise  they  asked.  The  poor  woman 
was  greatly  distressed.  This  young  fellow,  I  thought, 
favours  his  mother  in  features,  but  mentally  he  is 
perhaps  more  like  his  father.  Being  a  smoker  myself 
I  ventured  to  put  in  a  word  for  him.  They  were 
distressing  themselves  too  much,  I  told  her;  smoking 
in  moderation  was  not  only  harmless,  especially  to 
those  who  worked  out  of  doors,  but  it  was  a  well-nigh 
universal  habit,  and  many  leading  men  in  the  religious 
world,  both  churchmen  and  dissenters,  were  known  to 
be  smokers. 

Her  answer,  which  came  quickly  enough,  was  that 
they  did  not  regard  the  practice  of  smoking  as  in 
Itself  bad,  but  they  knew  that  in  some  circumstances 
It  was  inexpedient;  and  in  the  case  of  her  son  they 
were  troubled  at  the  thought  of  what  smoking  would 

48 


Seeking  a  Shelter 

ultimately  lead  to.  People,  she  continued,  did  not 
care  to  smoke,  any  more  than  they  did  to  eat  and 
drink,  In  solitude.  It  was  a  social  habit,  and  It  was 
inevitable  that  her  boy  should  look  for  others  to  keep 
him  company  In  smoking.  There  would  be  no  harm 
in  that  in  the  summer-time  when  young  people 
like  to  keep  out  of  doors  until  bedtime;  but  during 
the  long  winter  evenings  he  would  have  to  look  for 
his  companions  In  the  parlour  of  the  public-house. 
And  it  would  not  be  easy,  scarcely  possible,  to  sit 
long  among  the  others  without  drinking  a  little  beer. 
It  is  really  no  more  wrong  to  drink  a  little  beer  than 
to  smoke,  he  would  s.ay;  and  it  would  be  true.  One 
pipe  would  lead  to  another,  and  one  glass  of  beer 
to  another.  The  habit  would  be  formed  and  at  last 
all  his  evenings  and  all  his  earnings  would  be  spent  in 
the  public-house. 

She  was  right,  and  I  had  nothing  more  to  say 
except  to  wish  her  success  in  her  efforts. 

It  is  curious  that  the  strongest  protests  against  the 
evils  of  the  village  public,  which  one  hears  from 
village  women,  come  from  those  who  are  not  them- 
selves sufferers.  Perhaps  it  is  not  curious.  In- 
stinctively we  hide  our  sores,  bodily  and  mental,  from 
the  public  gaze. 

Not  long  ago  I  was  in  a  small  rustic  village  in 
Wiltshire,  perhaps  the  most  charming  village  I  have 
seen  in  that  country.  There  was  no  inn  or  ale-house, 
and  feeling  very  thirsty  after  my  long  walk  I  went  to  a 
cottage  and  asked  the  woman  I  saw  there  for  a  drink  of 
milk.     She  invited  me  in,  and  spreading  a  clean  cloth 

49 


Afoot  in  England 

on  the  table,  placed  a  jug  of  new  milk,  a  loaf,  and 
butter  before  me.  For  these  good  things  she  proudly 
refused  to  accept  payment.  As  she  was  a  handsome 
young  woman,  with  a  clear,  pleasant  voice,  I  was  glad 
to  have  her  sit  there  and  talk  to  me  while  I  refreshed 
myself.  Besides,  I  was  in  search  of  information  and 
got  it  from  her  during  our  talk.  My  object  in  going 
to  the  village  was  to  see  a  woman  who,  I  had  been  told, 
was  living  there.  I  now  heard  that  her  cottage  was 
close  by,  but  unfortunately,  while  anxious  to  see  her,  I 
had  no  excuse  for  calling. 

''Do  you  think,"  said  I  to  my  young  hostess,  ''that 
it  would  do  to  tell  her  that  I  had  heard  something  of 
her  strange  history  and  misfortunes,  and  wished  to 
offer  her  a  little  help?     Is  she  very  poor?" 

"Oh,  no,"  she  replied.  "Please  do  not  offer  her 
money,  if  you  see  her.  She  would  be  offended. 
There  is  no  one  in  this  village  who  would  take  a 
shiUing  as  a  gift  from  a  stranger.  We  all  have 
enough;  there  is  not  a  poor  person  among  us." 

"What  a  happy  village!"  I  exclaimed.  "Perhaps 
you  are  all  total  abstainers." 

She  laughed,  and  said  that  they  all  brewed  their 
own  beer — there  was  not  a  total  abstainer  among  them. 
Every  cottager  made  from  fifty  to  eighty  gallons,  or 
more,  and  they  drank  beer  every  day,  but  very 
moderately,  while  it  lasted.  They  were  all  very 
sober;  their  children  would  have  to  go  to  some  neigh- 
bouring village  to  see  a  tipsy  man. 

I  remarked  that  at  the  next  village,  which  had 
three  public-houses,  there  were  a  good  mfeny  persons 

50 


Seeking  a  Shelter 

so  poor  that  they  would  gladly  at  any  time  take  a 
shilling  from  any  one. 

It  was  the  same  everywhere  in  the  district,  she  said, 
except  in  that  village  which  had  no  pubhc-house. 
Not  only  were  they  better  off,  and  independent  of 
blanket  societies  and  charity  in  all  forms,  but  they 
were  infinitely  happier.  And  after  the  day's  work 
the  men  came  home  to  spend  the  evening  with  their 
wives  and  children. 

At  this  stage  I  was  surprised  by  a  sudden  burst  of 
passion  on  her  part.  She  stood  up,  her  face  flushing 
red,  and  solemnly  declared  that  if  ever  a  public-house 
was  opened  in  that  village,  and  if  the  men  took  to 
spending  their  evenings  in  it,  her  husband  with  them, 
she  would  not  endure  such  a  condition  of  things — 
she  wondered  that  so  many  women  endured  it — but 
would  take  her  little  ones  and  go  away  to  earn  her 
own  living  under  some  other  roof  1 


51 


Chapter  Five:   Wind^  Wave^  and 
Spirit 

The  rambles  I  have  described  were  mostly  inland: 
when  by  chance  they  took  us  down  to  the  sea  our 
impressions  and  adventures  appeared  less  interesting. 
Looking  back  on  the  holiday,  it  would  seem  to  us  a 
somewhat  vacant  time  compared  to  one  spent  in  wan- 
dering from  village  to  village.  I  mean  if  we  do  not 
take  into  account  that  first  impression  which  the  sea  in- 
variably makes  on  us  on  returning  to  it  after  a  long  ab- 
sence— the  shock  of  recognition  and  wonder  and  joy 
as  if  we  had  been  suffering  from  loss  of  memory  and 
it  had  now  suddenly  come  back  to  us.  That  brief 
moving  experience  over,  there  is  little  the  sea  can  give 
us  to  compare  with  the  land.  How  could  it  be  other- 
wise in  our  case,  seeing  that  we  were  by  it  in  a  crowd, 
our  movements  and  way  of  life  regulated  for  us  in 
places  which  appear  like  overgrown  and  ill-organized 
convalescent  homes?  There  was  always  a  secret  in- 
tense dislike  of  all  parasitic  and  holiday  places,  an  un- 
comfortable feeling  which  made  the  pleasure  seem 
poor  and  the  remembrance  of  days  so  spent  hardly 
worth  dwelling  on.  And  as  we  are  able  to  keep  in  or 
throw  out  of  our  minds  whatever  we  please,  being  auto- 
crats in  our  own  little  kingdom,  I  elected  to  cast  away 

52 


Wind,  Wave,  and  Spirit 

most  of  the  memories  of  these  comparatively  Insipid 
holidays.  But  not  all,  and  of  those  I  retain  I  will 
describe  at  least  two,  one  In  the  present  chapter  on 
the  East  Anglian  coast,  the  other  later  on. 

It  was  cold,  though  the  month  was  August;  it 
blew  and  the  sky  was  grey  and  rain  beginning  to 
fall  when  we  came  down  about  noon  to  a  small  town 
on  the  Norfolk  coast,  where  we  hoped  to  find  lodging 
.  and  such  comforts  as  could  be  purchased  out  of  a 
slender  purse.  It  was  a  small  modern  pleasure  town 
of  an  almost  startling  appearance  owing  to  the  material 
used  In  building  its  straight  rows  of  cottages  and  Its 
ugly  square  houses  and  villas.  This  was  an  orange- 
brown  stone  found  In  the  neighbourhood,  the  roofs 
being  all  of  hard,  black  slate.  I  had  never  seen 
houses  of  such  a  colour.  It  was  stronger,  more  glaring 
and  aggressive  than  the  reddest  brick,  and  there  was 
not  a  green  thing  to  partially  screen  or  soften  It,  nor 
did  the  darkness  of  the  wet  weather  have  any 
mitigating  effect  on  It.  The  town  was  built  on  high 
ground,  with  an  open  grassy  space  before  It  sloping 
down  to  the  cliff  in  which  steps  had  been  cut  to  give 
access  to  the  beach,  and  beyond  the  cliff  we  caught 
sight  of  the  grey,  desolate,  wind-vexed  sea.  But  the 
rain  was  coming  down  more  and  more  heavily,  turning 
the  streets  Into  torrents,  so  that  we  began  to  envy 
those  who  had  found  a  shelter  even  In  so  ugly  a 
place.  No  one  would  take  us  In.  House  after  house, 
street  after  street,  we  tried,  and  at  every  door  with 
Apartments  to  Let  over  it  where  we  knocked  the  same 
hateful  landlady-face  appeared  with  the  same  trium- 

53 


Afoot  In  England 

phant  gleam  in  the  fish-eyes  and  the  same  smile  on 
the  mouth  that  opened  to  tell  us  delightedly  that  she 
and  the  town  were  "full  up";  that  never  had  there 
been  known  such  a  rush  of  visitors;  applicants  were 
being  turned  away  every  hour  from  every  door ! 

After  three  miserable  hours  spent  in  this  way  we 
began  inquiring  at  all  the  shops,  and  eventually  at 
one  were  told  of  a  poor  woman  in  a  small  house  in  a 
street  a  good  way  back  from  the  front  who  would 
perhaps  be  able  to  taken  us  in.  To  this  place  we 
went  and  knocked  at  a  low  door  in  a  long  blank 
wall  in  a  narrow  street;  it  was  opened  to  us  by  a 
pale  thin  sad-looking  woman  in  a  rusty  black  gown, 
who  asked  us  into  a  shabby  parlour,  and  agreed 
to  take  us  in  until  we  could  find  something  better. 
She  had  a  gentle  voice  and  was  full  of  sympathy,  and 
seeing  our  plight  took  us  into  the  kitchen  behind  the 
parlour,  which  was  living-  and  working-room  as  well, 
to  dry  ourselves  by  the  fire. 

"The  greatest  pleasure  in  life,"  said  once  a  magnifi- 
cent young  athlete,  a  great  pedestrian,  to  me,  "is  to 
rest  when  you  are  tired."  And,  I  should  add,  to  dry 
and  warm  yourself  by  a  big  fire  when  wet  and  cold, 
and  to  eat  and  drink  when  you  are  hungry  and 
thirsty.  All  these  pleasures  were  now  ours,  for  very 
soon  tea  and  chops  were  ready  for  us;  and  so 
strangely  human,  so  sister-like  did  this  quiet  helpful 
woman  seem  after  our  harsh  experiences  on  that 
rough  rainy  day  that  we  congratulated  ourselves 
on  our  good  fortune  in  having  found  such  a  haven, 

54 


-^ 


Wind,  Wave,  and  Spirit 

and  soon  informed  her  that  we  wanted  no  ''better 
place." 

She  worked  with  her  needle  to  support  herself  and 
her  one  child,  a  little  boy  of  ten;  and  by  and  by 
when  he  came  in  pretty  wet  from  some  outdoor 
occupation  we  made  his  acquaintance  and  the  dis- 
covery that  he  was  a  little  boy  of  an  original  character. 
He  was  so  much  to  his  mother,  who,  poor  soul,  had 
nobody  else  in  the  world  to  love,  that  she  was  always 
haunted  by  the  fear  of  losing  him.  He  was  her  boy, 
the  child  of  her  body,  exclusively  her  own,  unlike 
all  other  boys,  and  her  wise  heart  told  her  that  if  she 
put  him  in  a  school  he  would  be  changed  so  that  she 
would  no  longer  know  him  for  her  boy.  For  it  is 
true  that  our  schools  are  factories,  with  a  machinery 
to  unmake  and  remake,  or  fabricate,  the  souls  of 
children  much  in  the  way  in  which  shoddy  is  manu- 
factured. You  may  see  a  thousand  rags  or  garments 
of  a  thousand  shapes  and  colours  cast  in  to  be  boiled, 
bleached,  pulled  to  pieces,  combed  and  woven,  and 
finally  come  out  as  a  piece  of  cloth  a  thousand  yards 
long  of  a  uniform  harmonious  pattern,  smooth,  glossy, 
and  respectable.  His  individuality  gone,  he  would  in 
a  sense  be  lost  to  her;  and  although  by  nature  a 
weak  timid  woman,  though  poor,  and  a  stranger  in 
a  strange  place,  this  thought,  or  feeling,  or  "ridiculous 
delusion"  as  most  people  would  call  it,  had  made  her 
strong,  and  she  had  succeeded  in  keeping  her  boy 
out  of  school. 

Hers  was  an  interesting  story.     Left  alone  in  the 

55 


Afoot  in  England 

world  she  had  married  one  in  her  own  class,  very 
happily  as  she  imagined.  He  was  in  some  business 
in  a  country  town,  well  off  enough  to  provide  a  com- 
fortable home,  and  he  was  very  good;  in  fact,  his  one 
fault  was  that  he  was  too  good,  too  open-hearted  and 
fond  of  associating  with  other  good  fellows  like  him- 
self, and  of  pledging  them  in  the  cup  that  cheers  and  at 
the  same  time  inebriates.  Nevertheless,  things  went 
very  well  for  a  time,  until  the  child  was  born,  the 
business  declined,  and  they  began  to  be  a  little 
pinched.  Then  it  occurred  to  her  that  she,  too,  might 
be  able  to  do  something.  She  started  dressmaking, 
and  as  she  had  good  taste  and  was  clever  and  quick, 
her  business  soon  prospered.  This  pleased  him;  it 
relieved  him  from  the  necessity  of  providing  for  the 
home,  and  enabled  him  to  follow  his  own  inclination, 
which  was  to  take  things  easily — to  be  an  idle  man, 
with  a  little  ready  money  in  his  pocket  for  betting 
and  other  pleasures.  The  money  was  now  provided 
out  of  "our  business."  This  state  of  things  con- 
tinued without  any  change,  except  that  process  of 
degeneration  which  continued  in  him,  until  the  child 
was  about  four  years  old,  when  all  at  once  one  day 
he  told  her  they  were  not  doing  as  well  as  they 
might.  She  was  giving  far  too  much  of  her  time 
and  attention  to  domestic  matters — to  the  child  es- 
pecially. Business  was  business — a  thing  it  was  hard 
for  a  woman  to  understand — and  it  was  impossible 
for  her  to  give  her  mind  properly  to  it  with  her 
thoughts  occupied  with  the  child.  It  couldn't  be 
done.     Let  the  child  be  put  away,  he  said,  and  the 

56 


Wind,  Wave,  and  Spirit 

receipts  would  probably  be  doubled.  He  had  been 
making  inquiries  and  found  that  for  a  modest  annual 
payment  the  boy  could  be  taken  proper  care  of  at  a 
distance  by  good  decent  people  he  had  heard  of. 

She  had  never  suspected  such  a  thought  in  his 
mind,  and  this  proposal  had  the  effect  of  a  stunning 
blow.  She  answered  not  one  word:  he  said  his  say 
and  went  out,  and  she  knew  she  would  not  see  him 
again  for  many  hours,  perhaps  not  for  some  days; 
she  knew,  too,  that  he  would  say  no  more  to  her  on 
the  subject,  that  it  would  all  be  arranged  about  the 
child  with  or  without  her  consent.  His  will  was 
law,  her  wishes  nothing.  For  she  was  his  wife  and 
humble  obedient  slave;  never  had  she  pleaded  with 
or  admonished  him  and  never  complained,  even  when, 
after  her  long  day  of  hard  work,  he  came  in  at  ten 
or  eleven  o'clock  at  night  with  several  of  his  pals, 
all  excited  with  drink  and  noisy  as  himself,  to  call  for 
supper.  Nevertheless  she  had  been  happy — intensely 
happy,  because  of  the  child.  The  love  for  the  man 
she  had  married,  wondering  how  one  so  bright  and 
handsome  and  universally  admired  and  liked  could 
stoop  to  her,  who  had  nothing  but  love  and  worship 
to  give  in  return — that  love  was  now  gone  and  was 
not  missed,  so  much  greater  and  more  satisfying  was 
the  love  for  her  boy.  And  now  she  must  lose  him! 
Two  or  three  silent  miserable  days  passed  by  while 
she  waited  for  the  dreadful  separation,  until  the 
thought  of  it  became  unendurable  and  she  resolved 
to  keep  her  child  and  sacrifice  everything  else.  Secretly 
she  prepared  for  flight,  getting  together  the  few  neces- 

57 


Afoot  in  England 

sary  things  she  could  carry;  then,  with  the  child  in 
her  arms,  she  stole  out  one  evening  and  began  her 
flight,  which  took  her  all  across  England  at  its  widest 
part,  and  ended  at  this*  small  coast  town,  the  best 
hiding-place  she  could  think  of. 

The  boy  was  a  queer  little  fellow,  healthy  but 
colourless,  with  strangely  beautiful  grey  eyes  which, 
on  first  seeing  them,  almost  startled  one  with  their 
intelligence.  He  was  shy  and  almost  obstinately 
silent,  but  when  I  talked  to  him  on  certain  subjects 
the  intense  suppressed  interest  he  felt  would  show 
itself  in  his  face,  and  by  and  by  it  would  burst  out 
in  speech — an  impetuous  torrent  of  words  in  a  high 
shrill  voice.  He  reminded  me  of  a  lark  in  a  cage. 
Watch  it  in  its  prison  when  fhe  sun  shines  forth — 
when,  like  the  captive  falcon  in  Dante,  it  is  "cheated 
by  a  gleam" — its  wing-tremblings,  and  all  its  little 
tentative  motions,  how  the  excitement  grows  and 
grows  in  it,  until,  although  shut  up  and  flight  denied 
it,  the  passion  can  no  longer  be  contained  and  it 
bursts  out  in  a  torrent  of  shrill  and  guttural  sounds, 
which,  if  it  were  free  and  soaring,  would  be  its  song. 
His  passion  was  all  for  nature,  and  his  mother  out 
of  her  small  earnings  had  managed  to  get  quite  a 
number  of  volumes  together  for  him.  These  he  read 
and  re-read  until  he  knew  them  by  heart;  and  on 
Sundays,  or  any  other  day  they  could  take,  those  two 
lonely  ones  would  take  a  basket  containing  their 
luncheon,  her  work  and  a  book  or  two,  and  set  out 
on  a  long  ramble  along  the  coast  to  pass  the  day  in 
some  solitary  spot  among  the  sandhills. 

58 


Wind,  Wave,  and  Spirit 

With  these  two,  the  gentle  woman  and  her  quiet 
boy  over  his  book,  and  the  kitchen  fire  to  warm  and 
dry  us  after  each  wetting,   the  bad  weather  became 
quite  bearable  although  It  lasted  many  days.     And  it 
was    amazingly  bad.     The    wind   blew   with    a    fury 
from  the  sea;  It  was  hard  to  walk  against  it.     The 
people  in  hundreds  waited  in  their  dull  apartments 
for  a  lull,   and  when  it  came   they  poured  out  like 
hungry  sheep  from  the  fold,  or  like  children  from  a 
school,  swarming  over  the  green  slope  down  to  the 
beach,  to  scatter  far  and  wide  over  the  sands.     Then, 
in   a   little   while,    a   new  menacing  blackness  would 
come  up  out  of  the  sea,  and  by  and  by  a  fresh  storm 
of  wind  would  send  the  people   scuttling  back  into 
shelter.     So  it  went  on  day  after  day,  and  when  night 
came  the  sound  of  the  ever-troubled  sea  grew  louder, 
so   that,    shut  up   in  our  little   rooms   in   that  back 
street,  we  had  it  in  our  ears,  except  at  intervals,  when 
the   wind   howled   loud   enough    to    drown   its    great 
voice,   and  hurled  tempests  of  rain  and  hail  against 
the  roofs  and  windows. 

To  me  the  most  amazing  thing  was  the  spectacle 
of  the  swifts.  It  was  late  for  them,  near  the  end  of 
August;  they  should  now  have  been  far  away  on 
their  flight  to  Africa;  yet  here  they  were,  delaying 
on  that  desolate  east  coast  in  wind  and  wet,  more 
than  a  hundred  of  them.  It  was  strange  to  sec  so 
many  at  one  spot,  and  I  could  only  suppose  that 
they  had  congregated  previous  to  migration  at  that 
unsuitable  place,  and  were  being  kept  back  by  the 
late  breeders,  who  had  not  yet  been  wrought  up  to 

59 


Afoot  in  England 

the  point  of  abandoning  their  broods.  They  haunted 
a  vast  ruinous  old  barn-like  building  near  the  front, 
which  was  probably  old  a  century  before  the  town 
was  built,  and  about  fifteen  to  twenty  pairs  had  their 
nests  under  the  eaves.  Over  this  building  they 
hung  all  day  in  a  crowd,  rising  high  to  come  down 
again  at  a  frantic  speed,  and  at  each  descent  a  few 
birds  could  be  seen  to  enter  the  holes,  while  others 
rushed  out  to  join  the  throng,  and  then  all  rose  and 
came  down  again  and  swept  round  and  round  in  a  furi- 
ous chase,  shrieking  as  if  mad.  At  all  hours  they  drew 
me  to  that  spot,  and  standing  there,  marvelling  at 
their  swaying  power  and  the  fury  that  possessed  them, 
they  appeared  to  me  like  tormented  beings,  and  were 
like  those  doomed  wretches  in  the  halls  of  Eblis 
whose  hearts  were  in  a  blaze  of  unquenchable  fire, 
and  who,  every  one  with  hands  pressed  to  his  breast, 
went  spinning  round  In  an  everlasting  agonized  dance. 
They  were  tormented  and  crazed  by  the  two  most 
powerful  instincts  of  birds  pulling  in  opposite  direc- 
tions— the  parental  instinct  and  the  passion  of  mi- 
gration which  called  them  to  the  south. 

In  such  weather,  especially  on  that  naked  desolate 
coast,  exposed  to  the  fury  of  the  winds,  one  marvels 
at  our  modern  craze  for  the  sea;  not  merely  to  come 
and  gaze  upon  and  listen  to  it,  to  renew  our  youth  in 
Its  salt,  exhilarating  waters  and  to  lie  in  delicious 
idleness  on  the  warm  shingle  or  mossy  cliff;  but  to 
be  always,  for  days  and  weeks  and  even  for  months, 
at  all  hours,  in  all  weathers,  close  to  it,  with  its 
murmur,   "as  of  one  in  pain,"  for  ever  In  our  ears. 

60 


Wind,  Wave,  and  Spirit 

Undoubtedly  it  is  an  unnatural,  a  diseased,  want  in 
us,  the  result  of  a  life  too  confined  and  artificial  in 
close  dirty  overcrowded  cities.  It  is  to  satisfy  this 
craving  that  towns  have  sprung  up  ever3rwherc  on 
our  coasts  and  extended  their  ugly  fronts  for  miles 
and  leagues,  with  their  tens  of  thousands  of  windows 
from  which  the  city-sickened  wretches  may  gaze  and 
gaze  and  listen  and  feed  their  sick  souls  with  the 
ocean.  That  is  to  say,  during  their  indoor  hours;  at 
other  times  they  walk  or  sit  or  lie  as  close  as  they  can 
to  It,  following  the  water  as  it  ebbs  and  reluctantly 
retiring  before  it  when  it  returns.  It  was  not  so 
formerly,  before  the  discovery  was  made  that  the 
sea  could  cure  us.  Probably  our  great-grandfathers 
didn't  even  know  they  were  sick;  at  all  events,  those 
who  had  to  live  in  the  vicinity  of  the  sea  were  satisfied 
to  be  a  little  distance  from  it,  out  of  sight  of  its 
grey  desolation  and,  if  possible,  out  of  hearing  of  its 
^'accents  disconsolate."  This  may  be  seen  anywhere 
on  our  coasts;  excepting  the  seaports  and  fishing 
settlements,  the  towns  and  villages  are  almost  always 
some  distance  from  the  sea,  often  in  a  hollow  or  at 
all  events  screened  by  rising  ground  and  woods  from 
it.  The  modern  seaside  place  has,  in  most  cases,  its 
old  town  or  village  not  far  away  but  quite  as  near  as 
the  healthy  ancients  wished  to  be. 

The  old  village  nearest  to  our  little  naked  and  ugly 
moderiy^own  was  discovered  at  a  distance  of  about 
two  miles,  but  it  might  have  been  two  hundred,  so 
great  was  the  change  to  its  sheltered  atmosphere. 
Loitering  in  its  quiet  streets  among  the  old  picturesque 

6i 


Afoot  in  England 

brick  houses  with  tiled  or  thatched  roofs  and  tall 
chimneys — ivy  and  rose  and  creeper-covered,  with  a 
background  of  old  oaks  and  elms- — I  had  the  sen- 
sation of  having  come  back  to  my  own  home.  In  that 
still  air  you  could  hear  men  and  women  talking  fifty 
or  a  hundred  yards  away,  the  cry  or  laugh  of  a  child 
and  the  clear  crowing  of  a  cock,  als'o  the  smaller  aerial 
sounds  of  nature,  the  tinkling  notes  of  tits  and  other 
birdlings  in  the  trees,  the  twitter  of  swallows  and 
martins,  and  the  "lisp  of  leaves  and  ripple  of  rain." 
It  was  sweet  and  restful  in  that  home-like  place,  and 
hard  to  leave  it  to  go  back  to  the  front  to  face  the 
furious  blasts  once  more.  B.ut  there  were  compensa- 
tions. 

The  little  town,  we  have  seen,  was  overcrowded 
with  late  summer  visitors,  all  eager  for  the  sea  yet 
compelled  to  waste  so  much  precious  time  shut  up  in 
apartments,  and  at  every  appearance  of  a  slight  im- 
provement in  the  weather  they  would  pour  out  of  the 
houses  and  the  green  slope  would  be  covered  with  a 
crowd  of  many  hundreds,  all  hurrying  down  to  the 
beach.  The  crowd  was  composed  mostly  of  women — 
about  three  to  every  man,  I  should  say — and  their 
children;  and  it  was  one  of  the  most  interesting 
crowds  I  had  ever  come  across  on  account  of  the  large 
number  of  persons  in  it  of  a  peculiarly  fine  type,  which 
chance  had  brought  together  at  that  spot.  It  was  the 
large  English  blonde,  and  there  were  so  many  individ- 
uals of  this  type  that  they  gave  a  character  to  the  crowd 
so  that  those  of  a  different  physique  and  colour  ap- 
peared to  be  fewer  than  they  were  and  were  almost 

62 


Wind,  Wave,  and  Spirit 

overlooked.  They  came  from  various  places  about  the 
country,  in  the  north  and  the  Midlands,  and  appeared 
to  be  of  the  well-to-do  classes;  they,  or  many  of  them, 
were  with  their  families  but  without  their  lords.  They 
were  mostly  tall  and  large  in  every  way,  very  white- 
skinned,  with  light  or  golden  hair  and  large  light  blue 
eyes.  A  common  character  of  these  women  was  their 
quiet  reposeful  manner;  they  walked  and  talked  and 
rose  up  and  sat  down  and  did  everything,  in  fact,  with 
an  air  of  deliberation ;  they  gazed  in  a  slow  steady  way 
at  you,  and  were  dignified,  some  even  majestic,  and 
were  like  a  herd  of  large  beautiful  white  cows.  The 
children,  too,  especially  the  girls,  some  almost  as  tall  as 
their  large  mothers,  though  still  in  short  frocks,  were 
very  fine.  The  one  pastime  of  these  was  paddling, 
and  it  was  a  delight  to  see  their  bare  feet  and  legs. 
The  legs  of  those  who  had  been  longest  on  the  spot — 
probably  several  weeks  in  some  instances — were  of  a 
deep  nutty  brown  hue  suffused  with  pink;  after  these 
a  gradation  of  colour,  light  brown  tinged  with  buff, 
pinkish  buff  and  cream,  like  the  Gloire  de  Dijon  rose; 
and  so  on  to  the  delicate  tender  pink  of  the  clover 
blossom;  and,  finally,  the  purest  ivory  white  of  the 
latest  arrivals  whose  skins  had  not  yet  been  caressed 
and  coloured  by  sun  and  wind. 

How  beautiful  are  the  feet  of  these  girls  by  the  sea 
who  bring  us  glad  tidings  of  a  better  time  to  come  and 
the  day  of  a  nobler  courage,  a  freer  larger  life  when 
garments  which  have  long  oppressed  and  hindered 
shall  have  been  cast  away ! 

It  was,   as  I  have  said,   mere  chance  which  had 

63 


Afoot  in  England 

brought  so  many  persons  of  a  particular  type 
together  on  this  occasion,  and  I  thought  I  might  go 
there  year  after  year  and  never  see  the  like  again. 
As  a  fact  I  did  return  when  August  came  round  and 
found  a  crowd  of  a  different  character.  The  type 
was  there  but  did  not  predominate :  it  was  no  longer 
the  herd  of  beautiful  white  and  strawberry  cows  with 
golden  horns  and  large  placid  eyes.  Nothing  in  fact 
was  the  same,  for  when  I  looked  for  the  swifts  there 
were  no  more  than  about  twenty  birds  instead  of  over 
a  hundred,  and  although  just  on  the  eve  of  de- 
parture they  were  not  behaving  in  the  same  excited 
manner. 

Probably  I  should  not  have  thought  so  much  about 
that  particular  crowd  in  that  tempestuous  August, 
and  remembered  it  so  vividly,  but  for  the  presence  of 
three  persons  in  it  and  the  strange  contrast  they  made 
to  the  large  white  type  I  have  described.  These 
were  a  woman  and  her  two  little  girls,  aged  about 
eight  and  ten  respectively,  but  very  small  for  their 
years.  She  was  a  little  black-haired  and  black-eyed 
woman  with  a  pale  sad  dark  face,  on  which  some 
great  grief  or  tragedy  had  left  its  shadow;  very  quiet 
and  subdued  in  her  manner;  she  would  sit  on  a 
chair  on  the  beach  when  the  weather  permitted,  a 
book  on  her  knees,  while  her  two  little  ones  played 
about,  chasing  and  flying  from  the  waves,  or  with  the 
aid  of  their  long  poles  vaulting  from  rock  to  rock. 
They  were  dressed  in  black  frocks  and  scarlet 
blouses,    which    set    off    their   beautiful    small    dark 

64 


Wind,  Wave,  and  Spirit 

faces;  their  eyes  sparkled  like  black  diamonds,  and 
their  loose  hair  was  a  wonder  to  see,  a  black  mist 
or  cloud  about  their  heads  and  necks  composed  of 
threads  fine  as  gossamer,  blacker  than  jet  and  shining 
like  spun  glass — hair  that  looked  as  if  no  comb  or 
brush  could  ever  tame  its  beautiful  wildness.  And 
in  spirit  they  were  what  they  seemed:  such  a  wild, 
joyous,  frolicsome  spirit  with  such  grace  and  fleetness 
one  does  not  look  for  in  human  beings,  but  only  in 
birds  or  in  some  small  bird-like  volatile  mammal — 
a  squirrel  or  a  marmoset  of  the  tropical  forest, 
or  the  chinchilla  of  the  desolate  mountain  slopes, 
the  swiftest,  wildest,  loveliest,  most  airy  and  most 
vocal  of  small  beasties.  Occasionally  to  watch  their 
wonderful  motions  more  closely  and  have  speech 
with  them,  I  followed  when  they  raced  over  the 
sands  or  flew  about  over  the  slippery  rocks,  and  felt 
like  a  cochin-china  fowl,  or  muscovy  duck,  or  dodo, 
trying  to  keep  pace  with  a  humming-bird.  Their 
voices  were  well  suited  to  their  small  brilliant  forms; 
not  loud,  though  high-pitched  and  singularly  musical 
and  penetrative,  like  the  high  clear  notes  of  a  skylark 
at  a  distance.  They  also  reminded  me  of  certain 
notes,  which  have  a  human  quality,  in  some  of  our 
songsters — the  swallow,  redstart,  pied  wagtail,  whin- 
chat,  and  two  or  three  others.  Such  pure  and 
beautiful  sounds  are  sometimes  heard  in  human 
voices,  chiefly  in  children,  when  they  are  talking  and 
laughing  in  joyous  excitement.  But  for  any  sort  of 
conversation  they  were  too  volatile;  before  I  could 

65 


Afoot  in  England 

get  a  dozen  words  from  them  they  would  be  off 
again,  flying  and  flitting  along  the  margin,  like  sand- 
pipers, and  beating  the  clear-voiced  sandpiper  at  his 
own  aerial  graceful  game. 

By  and  by  I  was  favoured  with  a  fine  exhibition 
of  the  spirit  animating  these  two  little  things.  The 
weather  had  made  it  possible  for  the  crowd  of  visitors 
to  go  down  and  scatter  itself  aver  the  beach,  when 
the  usual  black  cloud  sprang  up  and  soon  burst  on  us 
in  a  furious  tempest  of  wind  and  rain,  sending  the 
people  flying  back  to  the  shelter  of  a  large  structure 
erected  for  such  purposes  against  the  chff.  It  was  a 
vast  barn-like  place,  open  to  the  front,  the  roof 
supported  by  wooden  columns,  and  here  in  a  few 
minutes  some  three  or  four  hundred  persons  were 
gathered,  mostly  women  and  their  girls,  white  and 
blue-eyed  with  long  wet  golden  hair  hanging  down 
their  backs.  Finding  a  vacant  place  on  the  bench,  I 
sat  down  next  to  a  large  motherly-looking  woman 
with  a  robust  or  dumpy  blue-eyed  girl  about  four  or 
five  years  old  on  her  lap.  Most  of  the  people  were 
standing  about  in  groups  waiting  for  the  storm  to 
blow  over,  and  presently  I  noticed  my  two  wild- 
haired  dark  little  girls  moving  about  in  the  crowd. 
It  was  impossible  not  to  seen  them,  for  they  could 
not  keep  still  a  moment.  They  were  here,  there,  and 
everywhere,  playing  hide-and-seek  and  skipping 
and  racing  wherever  they  could  find  an  opening,  and 
by  and  by,  taking  hold  of  each  other,  they  started 
dancing.  It  was  a  pretty  spectacle,  but  most  in- 
teresting to  see  was  the  effect  produced  on  the  other 

66 


Wind,  Wave,  and  Spirit 

children,  the  hundred  girls,  big  and  little,  the  little 
ones  especially,  who  had  been  standing  there  tired 
and  impatient  to  get  out  to  the  sea,  and  who  were 
now  becoming  more  and  more  excited  as  they  gazed, 
until,  like  children  when  listening  to  lively  music, 
they  began  moving  feet  and  hands  and  soon  their 
whole  bodies  in  time  to  the  swift  movements  of  the 
little  dancers.  At  last,  plucking  up  courage,  first 
one,  then  another,  joined  them,  and  were  caught  as 
they  came  and  whirled  round  and  round  in  a  manner 
quite  new  to  them  and  which  they  appeared  to  find 
very  delightful.  By  and  by  I  observed  that  the 
little  rosy-faced  dumpy  girl  on  my  neighbour's  knees 
was  taking  the  infection;  she  was  staring,  her  blue 
eyes  opened  to  their  widest  in  wonder  and  dehght. 
Then  suddenly  she  began  pleading,  "Oh,  mummy, 
do  let  me  go  to  the  little  girls — oh,  do  let  me!" 
And  her  mother  said  "No,"  because  she  was  so  little, 
and  could  never  fly  round  like  that,  and  so  would 
fall  and  hurt  herself  and  cry.  But  she  pleaded  still, 
and  was  ready  to  cry  if  refused,  until  the  good 
anxious  mother  was  compelled  to  release  her;  and 
down  she  slipped,  and  after  standing  still  with  her 
little  arms  and  closed  hands  held  up  as  if  to  collect 
herself  before  plunging  into  the  new  tremendous 
adventure,  she  rushed  out  towards  the  dancers.  One 
of  them  saw  her  coming,  and  instantly  quitting  the 
child  she  was  waltzing  with  flew  to  meet  her,  and 
catching  her  round  the  middle  began  spinnin(g  her 
about  as  if  the  solid  little  thing  weighed  no  more 
than  a  feather.     But  it  proved  too  much  for  her; 

67 


Afoot  in  England 

very  soon  she  came  down  and  broke  Into  a  loud  cry, 
which  brought  her  mother  Instantly  to  her,  and  she 
was  picked  up  and  taken  back  to  the  seat  and  held 
to  the  broad  bosom  and  soothed  with  caresses  and 
tender  words  until  the  sobs  began  to  subside.  Then, 
even  before  the  tears  were  dry,  her  eyes  were  once 
more  gazing  at  the  tireless  little  dancers,  taking  on 
child  after  child  as  they  came  timidly  forward  to  have 
a  share  In  the  fun,  and  once  more  she  began  to  plead 
with  her  "mummy,"  and  would  not  be  denied,  for 
she  was  a  most  determined  little  Saxon,  until  getting 
her  way  she  rushed  out  for  a  second  trial.  Again 
the  little  dancer  saw  her  coming  and  flew  to  her  like 
a  bird  to  its  mate,  and  clasping  her  laughed  her 
merry  musical  little  laugh.  It  was  her  "sudden 
glory,"  an  expression  of  pure  delight  In  her  power 
to  infuse  her  own  fire  and  boundless  gaiety  of  soul 
into  all  these  little  blue-eyed  rosy  phlegmatic  lumps 
of  humanity. 

What  was  it  in  these  human  mites,  these  fantastic 
Brownies,  which,  in  that  crowd  of  Rowenas  and  their 
children,  made  them  seem  like  beings  not  only  of 
another  race,  but  of  another  species?  How  came 
they  alone  to  be  distinguished  among  so  many  by 
that  Irresponsible  gaiety,  as  of  the  most  volatile  of 
wild  creatures,  that  quickness  of  sense  and  mind  and 
sympathy,  that  variety  and  grace  and  swiftness — all 
these  brilliant  exotic  quahties  harmoniously  housed 
in  their  small  beautiful  elastic  and  vigorous  frames? 
It  was  their  genius,  their  character — something 
derived  from  their  race.     But  what  race?     Looking 

68 


Wind,  Wave,  and  Spirit 

at  their  mother  watching  her  little  ones  at  their  frolics 
with  dark  shining  eyes — the  small  oval-faced  brown- 
skinned  woman  with  blackest  hair — I  could  but  say 
that  she  was  an  Iberian,  pure  and  simple,  and  that 
her  children  were  like  her.  In  Southern  Europe  that 
type  abounds;  it  is  also  to  be  met  with  throughout 
Britain,  perhaps  most  common  in  the  southern  coun- 
ties, and  it  is  not  uncommon  in  East  Anglia.  Indeed, 
I  think  it  is  in  Norfolk  where  we  may  best  see  the 
two  most  marked  sub-types  in  which  it  is  divided — 
the  two  extremes.  The  small  stature,  narrow  head, 
dark  skin,  black  hair  and  eyes  are  common  to  both, 
and  in  both  these  physical  characters  are  correlated 
with  certain  mental  traits,  as,  for  instance,  a  peculiar 
vivacity  and  warmth  of  disposition;  but  they  are 
high  and  low.  In  the  latter  sub-division  the  skin  is 
coarse  in  texture,  brown  or  old  parchment  in  colour, 
with  little  red  in  it;  the  black  hair  is  also  coarse,  the 
forehead  small,  the  nose  projecting,  and  the  facial 
angle  indicative  of  a  more  primitive  race.  One 
might  imagine  that  these  people  had  been  interred, 
along  with  specimens  of  rude  pottery  and  bone  and 
flint  implements,  a  long  time  back,  about  the  begin- 
ning of  the  Bronze  Age  perhaps,  and  had  now  come 
out  of  their  graves  and  put  on  modern  clothes.  At 
all  events  I  don't  think  a  resident  in  Norfolk  would 
have  much  difficulty  In  picking  out  the  portraits  of 
some  of  his  fellow-villagers  in  Mr.  Reed's  Prehistoric 
Peeps. 

The  mother  and  her  little  ones  were  of  the  higher 
sub-type;    they   had    delicate    skins,    beautiful    faces, 

69 


Afoot  in  England 

clear  musical  voices.  They  were  Iberians  in  blood, 
but  Improved;  purified  and  refined  as  by  fire; 
gentleized  and  spiritualized,  and  to  the  lower  types 
down  to  the  aboriginals,  as  Is  the  bright  consummate 
flower  to  leaf  and  stem  and  root. 

Often  and  often  we  are  teased  and  tantalized  and 
mocked  by  that  old  question: 

Oh!  so  old- 
Thousands  of  years,  thousands  of  years, 
If  all  were  told — 

of  black  and  blue  eyes;  blue  versus  black  and  black 
versus  blue,  to  put  it  both  ways.  And  by  black  we 
mean  black  with  orange-brown  lights  in  it — the  eye 
called  tortoiseshell;  and  velvety  browns  with  other 
browns,  also  hazels.  Blue  Includes  all  blues,  from 
ultramarine,  or  violet,  to  the  palest  blue  of  a  pale 
sky;  and  all  greys  down  to  the  grey  that  is  almost 
white.  Our  preference  for  this  or  that  colour  Is 
supposed  to  depend  on  nothing  but  individual  taste, 
or  fancy,  and  association.  I  believe  It  Is  something 
more,  but  I  do  find  that  we  are  very  apt  to  be  swayed 
this  way  and  that  by  the  colour  of  the  eyes  of  the 
people  we  meet  In  life,  according  as  they  (the  people) 
attract  or  repel  us.  The  eyes  of  the  two  little  girls 
were  black  as  polished  black  diamonds  until  looked 
at  closely,  when  they  appeared  a  beautiful  deep  brown 
on  which  the  black  pupils  were  seen  distinctly;  they 
were  so  lovely  that  I,  predisposed  to  prefer  dark  to 
light,  felt  that  this  question  was  now  definitely  settled 
for  me — that  black  was  best.     That  irresistible  charm, 

70 


Wind,  Wave,  and  Spirit 

the  flame-like  spirit  which  raised  these  two  so  much 
above  the  others — how  could  it  go  with  anything  but 
the  darkest  eyes! 

But  no  sooner  was  the  question  thus  settled 
definitely  and  for  all  time,  to  my  very  great  satis- 
faction, than  it  was  unsettled  again.  I  do  not  know 
how  this  came  about;  it  may  have  been  the  sight  of 
some  small  child's  blue  eyes  looking  up  at  me,  like 
the  arch  blue  eyes  of  a  kitten,  full  of  wonder  at  the 
world  and  everything  in  it; 

"Where  did  you  get  those  eyes  so  blue?" 
''Out  of  the  sky  as  I  came  through" ; 

or  it  may  have  been  the  sight  of  a  harebell;  and 
perhaps  it  came  from  nothing  but  the  'Vaste  shining 
of  the  sky."  At  all  events,  there  they  were,  remem- 
bered again,  looking  at  me  from  the  past,  blue  eyes 
that  were  beautiful  and  dear  to  me,  whose  blue  colour 
was  associated  with  every  sweetness  and  charm  in 
child  and  woman  and  with  all  that  is  best  and  highest 
in  human  souls;  and  I  could  not  and  had  no  wish  to 
resist  their  appeal. 

Then  came  a  new  experience  of  the  eye  that  is  blue 
— a  meeting  with  one  who  almost  seemed  to  be  less 
flesh  than  spirit.  A  middle-aged  lady,  frail,  very 
frail;  exceedingly  pale  from  long  ill-health,  prema- 
turely white-haired,  with  beautiful  grey  eyes,  gentle 
but  wonderfully  bright.  Altogether  she  was  like  a 
being  compounded  as  to  her  grosser  part  of  foam  and 
mist  and  gossamer  and  thistledown,  and  was  swayed 
by  every  breath  of  air,  and  who,  should  she  venture 

71 


Afoot  in  England 

abroad  in  rough  weather,  would  be  lifted  and  bloAOi 
away  by  the  gale  and  scattered  like  mist  over  the 
earth.  Yet  she,  so  frail,  so  timid,  was  the  one 
member  of  the  community  who  had  set  herself  to  do 
the  work  of  a  giant — that  of  championing  all  ill-used 
and  suffering  creatures,  wild  or  tame,  holding  a  pro- 
tecting shield  over  them  against  the  innate  brutality 
of  the  people.  She  had  been  abused  and  mocked  and 
jeered  at  by  many,  while  others  had  regarded  her 
action  with  an  amused  smile  or  else  with  a  cold 
indifference.  But  eventually  some,  for  very  shame, 
had  been  drawn  to  her  side,  and  a  change  in  the  feel- 
ing of  the  people  had  resulted;  domestic  animals 
were  treated  better,  and  it  was  no  longer  universally 
believed  that  all  wild  animals,  especially  those  with 
wings,  existed  only  that  men  might  amuse  themselves 
by  killing  and  wounding  and  trapping  and  caging  and 
persecuting  them  in  various  other  ways. 

The  sight  of  that  burning  and  shining  spirit  in  its 
frail  tenement — for  did  I  not  actually  see  her  spirit 
and  the  very  soul  of  her  in  those  eyes? — was  the  last 
of  the  unforgotten  experiences  I  had  at  that  place 
which  had  startled  and  repelled  me  with  its  ugliness. 

But,  no,  there  was  one  more,  marvellous  as  any — 
the  experience  of  a  day  of  days,  one  of  those  rare 
days  when  nature  appears  to  us  spiritualized  and  is  no 
longer  nature,  when  that  which  had  transfigured  this 
visible  world  is  in  us  too,  and  it  becomes  possible  to 
believe — it  is  almost  a  conviction — that  the  burning 
and  shining  spirit  seen  and  recognized  in  one  among 
a  thousand  we  have  known  is  in  all  of  us  and  in  all 

72 


Wind,  Wave,  and  Spirit 

things.  In  such  moments  it  is  possible  to  go  beyond 
even  the  most  advanced  of  the  modern  physicists  who 
hold  that  force  alone  exists,  that  matter  is  but  a 
disguise,  a  shadow  and  delusion;  for  we  may  add 
that  force  itself — that  which  we  call  force  or  energy 
— is  but  a  semblance  and  shadow  of  the  universal  soul. 
The  change  in  the  weather  was  not  sudden;  the 
furious  winds  dropped  gradually;  the  clouds  floated 
higher  in  the  heavens,  and  were  of  a  lighter  grey; 
there  were  wider  breaks  in  them,  showing  the  lucid 
blue  beyond;  and  the  sea  grew  quieter.  It  had  raved 
and  roared  too  long,  beating  against  the  iron  walls 
that  held  it  back,  and  was  now  spent  and  fallen  into 
an  uneasy  sleep,  but  still  moved  uneasily  and  moaned 
a  little.  Then  all  at  once  summer  returned,  coming 
like  a  thief  in  the  night,  for  when  it  was  morning  the 
sun  rose  in  splendour  and  power  in  a  sky  without 
a  cloud  on  Its  vast  azure  expanse,  on  a  calm  sea 
with  no  motion  but  that  scarcely  perceptible  rise  and 
fall  as  of  one  that  sleeps.  As  the  sun  rose  higher  the 
air  grew  warmer  until  it  was  full  summer  heat,  but 
although  a  "visible  heat,"  it  was  never  oppressive; 
for  all  that  day  we  were  abroad,  and  as  the  tide  ebbed 
a  new  country  that  was  neither  earth  nor  sea  was 
disclosed,  an  Infinite  expanse  of  pale  yellow  sand 
stretching  away  on  either  side,  and  further  and  further 
out  until  It  mingled  and  melted  Into  the  sparkling 
water  and  faintly  seen  line  of  foam  on  the  horizon. 
And  over  all — the  distant  sea,  the  ridge  of  low  dunes 
marking  where  the  earth  ended  and  the  flat,  yellow 
expanse  between — there  brooded  a  soft  bluish  silvery 

73 


Afoot  in  Rutland 

haze.  A  haze  that  blotted  nothing  out,  but  blended 
and  interfused  them  all  until  earth  and  air  and  sea 
and  sands  were  scarcely  distinguishable.  The  effect, 
delicate,  mysterious,  unearthly,  cannot  be  described. 

Ethereal  gauze  .  .  . 
Visible  heat,  air — water,  and  dry  sea, 
Last  conquest  of  the  eye  .  .  . 

Sun  dust, 
Aerial  surf  upon  the  shores  of  earth, 
Ethereal  estuary,  frith  of  light.  .  .  . 
Bird  of  the  sun,  transparent  winged. 

Do  we  not  see  that  words  fail  as  pigments  do — that 
the  effect  is  too  coarse,  since  in  describing  it  we  put 
it  before  the  mental  eye  as  something  distinctly  visible, 
a  thing  of  itself  and  separate.  But  it  is  not  so  in 
nature;  the  effect  is  of  something  almost  invisible 
and  is  yet  a  part  of  all  and  makes  all  things — sky  and 
sea  and  land — as  unsubstantial  as  itself.  Even  living, 
moving  things  had  that  aspect.  Far  out  on  the  lowest 
further  strip  of  sand,  which  appeared  to  be  on  a 
level  with  the  sea,  gulls  were  seen  standing  in  twos 
and  threes  and  small  groups  and  in  rows;  but  they 
did  not  look  like  gulls — famihar  birds,  gull-shaped 
with  grey  and  white  plumage.  They  appeared  twice 
as  big  as  gulls,  and  were  of  a  dazzling  whiteness  and 
of  no  definite  shape:  though  standing  still  they  had 
motion,  an  effect  of  the  quivering  dancing  air,  the 
"visible  heat'';  at  rest,  they  were  seen  now  as  separate 
objects;  then  as  one  with  the  silver  sparkle  on  the 

74 


Wind,  Wave,  and  Spirit 

sea;  and  when  they  rose  and  floated  away  they  were 
no  longer  shining  and  white,  but  like  pale  shadows  of 
winged  forms  faintly  visible  In  the  haze. 

They  were  not  birds  but  spirits — beings  that  lived 
in  or  were  passing  through  the  world  and  now,  like 
the  heat,  made  visible;  and  I,  standing  far  out  on  the 
sparkling  sands,  with  the  sparkling  sea  on  one  side 
and  the  line  of  dunes,  indistinctly  seen  as  land,  on 
the  other,  was  one  of  them;  and  if  any  person  had 
looked  at  me  from  a  distance  he  would  have  seen  me 
as  a  formless  shining  white  being  standing  by  the  sea, 
and  then  perhaps  as  a  winged  shadow  floating  in  the 
haze.  It  was  only  necessary  to  put  out  one's  arms 
to  float.  That  was  the  effect  on  my  mind:  this 
natural  world  was  changed  to  a  supernatural,  and 
there  was  no  more  matter  nor  force  in  sea  or  land 
nor  in  the  heavens  above,  but  only  spirit. 


75 


Chapter  Six:  By  Swallowfield 

One  of  the  most  attractive  bits  of  green  and  wooded 
country  near  London  I  know  lies  between  Reading 
and  Basingstoke  and  includes  Aldermaston  with  its  im- 
memorial oaks  in  Berkshire  and  Silchester  with  Pam- 
ber  Forest  in  Hampshire.  It  has  long  been  one  of  my 
favourite  haunts,  summer  and  winter,  and  it  is  perhaps 
the  only  wooded  place  in  England  where  I  have  a  home 
feeling  as  strong  as  that  which  I  experience  in  certain 
places  among  the  South  Wiltshire  downs  and  in  the  ab- 
solutely flat  country  on  the  Severn,  in  Somerset,  and 
the  flat  country  in  Cambridgeshire  and  East  Anglia, 
especially  at  Lynn  and  about  Ely. 

I  am  now  going  back  to  my  first  visit  to  this  green 
retreat;  it  was  in  the  course  of  one  of  those  Easter 
walks  I  have  spoken  of,  and  the  way  was  through 
Reading  and  by  Three  Mile  Cross  and  Swallowfield. 
On  this  occasion  I  conceived  a  dislike  to  Reading  which 
I  have  never  quite  got  over,  for  it  seemed  an  uncon- 
scionably big  place  for  two  slow  pedestrians  to  leave 
behind.  Worse  still,  when  we  did  leave  it  we  found 
that  Reading  would  not  leave  us.  It  was  like  a 
stupendous  octopus  in  red  brick  which  threw  out  red 
tentacles,  miles  and  miles  long  in  various  directions — 
little  rows  and  single  and  double  cottages  and  villas, 
all  in  red,  red  brick  and  its  weary  accompaniment,  the 

76 


By  Swallowfield 

everlasting  hard  slate  roof.  These  square  red  brick 
boxes  with  sloping  slate  tops  are  built  as  close  as 
possible  to  the  public  road,  so  that  the  passer-by  by 
looking  in  at  the  windows  may  see  the  whole  interior 
— wall-papers,  pictures,  furniture,  and  oftentimes  the 
dull  expressionless  face  of  the  woman  of  the  house, 
staring  back  at  you  out  of  her  shallow  blue  eyes. 
The  weather  too  was  against  us;  a  grey  hard  sky,  like 
the  slate  roofs,  and  a  cold  strong  east  wind  to  make  the 
road  dusty  all  day  long. 

Arrived  at  Three  Mile  Cross,  it  was  no  surprise  to 
find  it  no  longer  recognizable  as  the  hamlet  described 
in  Our  Village,  but  it  was  saddening  to  look  at  the 
cottage  in  which  Mary  Russell  Mitford  lived  and  was 
on  the  whole  very  happy  with  her  flowers  and  work 
for  thirty  years  of  her  life,  in  its  present  degraded 
state.  It  has  a  sign  now  and  calls  itself  the  "Mitford 
Arms"  and  a  "Temperance  Hotel,"  and  we  were  told 
that  you  could  get  tea  and  bread  and  butter  there  but 
nothing  else.  The  cottage  has  been  much  altered 
since  Miss  Mitford's  time,  and  the  open  space  once 
occupied  by  the  beloved  garden  is  now  filled  with 
buildings,  including  a  corrugated-iron  dissenting 
chapel. 

From  Three  Mile  Cross  we  walked  on  to  Swallow- 
field,  still  by  those  never-ending  roadside  red-brick 
cottages  and  villas,  for  we  were  not  yet  properly  out 
of  the  hated  biscuit  metropolis.  It  was  a  big  village 
with  the  houses  scattered  far  and  wide  over  several 
square  miles  of  country,  but  just  where  the  church 
stands  it  is  shady  and  pleasant.     The  pretty  church- 

77 


Afoot  in  England 

yard  too  is  very  deeply  shaded  and  occupies  a  small 
hill  with  the  Loddon  flowing  partly  round  it,  then 
taking  its  swift  way  through  the  village.  Miss 
Mitford's  monument  is  a  plain,  almost  an  ugly,  granite 
cross,  standing  close  to  the  wall,  shaded  by  yew,  elm, 
and  beech  trees,  and  one  is  grateful  to  think  that  if  she 
never  had  her  reward  when  living  she  has  found  at 
any  rate  a  very  peaceful  resting-place. 

The  sexton  was  there  and  told  us  that  he  was  but 
ten  years  old  when  Miss  Mitford  died,  but  that  he 
remembered  her  well  and  she  was  a  very  pleasant 
little  woman.  Others  in  the  place  who  remembered 
her  said  the  same — that  she  was  very  pleasant  and 
sweet.  We  know  that  she  was  sweet  and  charming, 
but  unfortunately  the  portraits  we  have  of  her  do  not 
give  that  impression.  They  represent  her  as  a  fat 
common-place  looking  person,  a  little  vulgar  perhaps. 
I  fancy  the  artists  were  bunglers.  I  possess  a  copy  of 
a  very  small  pencil  sketch  made  of  her  face  by  a  dear 
old  lady  friend  of  mine,  now  dead,  about  the  year 
1 85 1  or  2.  My  friend  had  a  gift  for  portraiture  in  a 
peculiar  way.  When  she  saw  a  face  that  greatly  inter- 
ested her,  in  a  drawing-room,  on  a  platform,  in  the 
street,  anywhere,  it  remained  very  vividly  in  her  mind 
and  on  going  home  she  would  sketch  it,  and  some  of 
these  sketches  of  well  known  persons  are  wonderfully 
good.  She  was  staying  in  the  country  with  a  friend 
who  drove  with  her  to  Swallowfield  to  call  on  Miss 
Mitford,  and  on  her  return  to  her  friend's  house  she 
made  the  little  sketch,  and  in  this  tiny  portrait  I  can 

78 


By  Swallowfield 

see  the  refinement,  the  sweetness,  the  animation  and 
charm  which  she  undoubtedly  possessed. 

But  let  me  now  venture  to  step  a  little  outside  of 
my  own  province,  my  small  plot — a  poor  pedestrian's 
unimportant  impressions  of  places  and  faces; — all 
these  p's  come  by  accident;  and  this  I  put  in 
parenthetically  just  because  an  editor  solemnly  told 
me  a  while  ago  that  he  couldn't  abide  and  wouldn't 
have  alliteration's  artful  aid  in  his  periodical.  Let 
us  leave  the  subject  of  what  Miss  Mitford  was  to 
those  of  her  day  who  knew  her;  a  thousand  lovely 
personalities  pass  away  every  year  and  in  a  little 
while  are  no  more  remembered  than  the  bright- 
plumaged  bird  that  falls  in  the  tropical  forest,  or  the 
vanished  orchid  bloom  of  which  some  one  has  said 
that  the  angels  in  heaven  can  look  on  no  more 
beautiful  thing.  Leaving  all  that,  let  us  ask  what 
remains  to  us  of  another  generation  of  all  she  was 
and  did? 

She  was  a  prolific  writer,  both  prose  and  verse, 
and,  as  we  know,  had  an  extraordinary  vogue  in  her 
own  time.  Anything  that  came  from  her  pen  had 
an  immediate  success;  indeed,  so  highly  was  she 
regarded  that  nothing  she  chose  to  write,  however 
poor,  could  fail.  And  she  certainly  did  write  a  good 
deal  of  poor  stuii:  it  was  all  in  a  sense  poor,  but 
books  and  books,  poor  soul,  she  had  to  write.  It 
was  in  a  sense  poor  because  it  was  mostly  ambitious 
stuff,  and,  as  the  proverb  says,  "You  cannot  fly  like 
an  eagle  with  the  wings  of  a  wren."     She  was  driven 

79 


Afoot  in  England 

to  fly,  and  gave  her  little  wings  too  much  to  do,  and 
her  flights  were  apt  to  be  mere  little  weak  flutterings 
over  the  surface  of  the  ground.  A  wren,  and  she 
had  not  a  cuckoo  but  a  devouring  cormorant  to  sus- 
tain— that  dear,  beautiful  father  of  hers,  who  was 
more  to  her  than  any  reprobate  son  to  his  devoted 
mother,  and  who  day  after  day,  year  after  year, 
gobbled  up  her  earnings,  and  then  would  hungrily 
go  on  squawking  for  more  until  he  stumbled  into  the 
grave.  Alas!  he  was  too  long  in  dying;  she  was 
worn  out  by  then,  the  little  heart  beating  not  so  fast, 
and  the  bright  little  brain  growing  dim  and  very  tired. 
Now  all  the  ambitious  stuff  she  wrote  to  keep  the 
cormorant  and,  incidentally,  to  immortalize  herself, 
has  fallen  deservedly  into  oblivion.  But  we — some 
of  us — do  not  forget  and  never  want  to  forget  Mary 
Russell  Mitford.  Her  letters  remain — the  little 
friendly  letters  which  came  from  her  pen  like  balls 
of  silvery  down  from  a  sun-ripened  plant,  and  were 
wafted  far  and  wide  over  the  land  to  those  she  loved. 
There  is  a  wonderful  charm  in  them;  they  are  so 
spontaneous,  so  natural,  so  perfectly  reflect  her  hu- 
mour and  vivacity,  her  overflowing  sweetness,  her 
beautiful  spirit.  And  one  book  too  remains^ — the  se- 
ries of  sketches  about  the  poor  little  hamlet,  in  which 
she  lived  so  long  and  laboured  so  hard  to  support  her- 
self and  her  parents,  the  turtledove  mated  with  a  cor- 
morant. Driven  to  produce  work  and  hard  up  for 
a  subject,  in  a  happy  moment  she  took  up  this  humble 
one  lying  at  her  own  door  and  allowed  her  self  to 

80 


By  Swallowfield 

write  naturally  even  as  In  her  most  intimate  letters. 
This  Is  the  reason  of  the  vitality  of  Our  Village;  it 
was  simple,  natural,  and  reflected  the  author  herself, 
her  tender  human  heart,  her  impulsive  nature,  her 
bright  playful  humorous  spirit.  There  Is  no  thought, 
no  mind  stuff  in  it,  and  It  is  a  classic!  It  Is  about 
the  country,  and  she  has  so  'little  observation  that  it 
might  have  been  written  in  a  town,  out  of  a  book, 
away  from  nature's  sights  and  sounds.  Her  rustic 
characters  are  not  comparable  to  those  of  a  score  or 
perhaps  two  or  three  score  of  other  writers  who  treat 
of  such  subjects.  The  dialogue,  when  she  makes 
them  talk.  Is  unnatural,  and  her  invention  so  poor 
that  when  she  puts  in  a  little  romance  of  her  own 
making  one  regrets  it.  And  so  one  might  go  on 
picking  it  all  to  pieces  like  a  dandelion  blossom. 
Nevertheless  It  endures,  outliving  scores  of  in  a  way 
better  books  on  the  same  themes,  because  her  own 
delightful  personality  manifests  itself  and  shines  in 
all  these  little  pictures.  This  short  passage  describing 
how  she  took  Lizzie,  the  little  village  child  she  loved, 
to  gather  cowslips  in  the  meadows,  will  serve  as  an 
illustration. 

They  who  know  these  feelings  (and  who  is  so 
happy  as  not  to  have  known  some  of  them)  will 
understand  why  Alfieri  became  powerless,  and 
Froissart  dull;  and  why  even  needlework,  the 
most  effective  sedative,  that  grand  soother  and 
composer  of  women's  distress,  fails  to  comfort  me 
today.     I    will    go    out    into    the    air    this    cool, 

8i 


Afoot  in  England 

pleasant  afternoon,  and  try  what  that  will  do.  .  .  . 
I  will  go  to  the  meadows,  the  beautiful  meadows  I 
and  I  will  have  my  materials  of  happiness,  Lizzie 
and  May,  and  a  basket  for  flowers,  and  we  will 
make  a  cowslip  ball.  *'Did  you  ever  see  a  cow- 
slip ball,  Lizzie?"  "No."  ''Come  away  then; 
make  haste !  run,  Lizzie !" 

And  on  we  go,  fast,  fast  I  down  the  road,  across 
the  lea,  past  the  workhouse,  along  by  the  great 
pond,  till  we  slide  into  the  deep  narrow  lane,  whose 
hedges  seem  to  meet  over  the  water,  and  win  our 
way  to  the  little  farmhouse  at  the  end.  ''Through 
the  farmyard,  Lizzie;  over  the  gate;  never  mind 
the  cows;  they  are  quiet  enough."  "I  don't  mind 
'em,"  said  Miss  Lizzie,  boldly  and  truly,  and  with 
a  proud  affronted  air,  displeased  at  being  thought 
to  mind  anything,  and  showing  by  her  attitude  and 
manner  some  design  of  proving  her  courage  by  an 
attack  on  the  largest  of  the  herd,  in  the  shape  of  a 
pull  by  the  tail.  "I  don't  mind  'em."  "I  know 
you  don't,  Lizzie;  but  let  them,  alone  and  don't 
chase  the  turkey-cock.  Come  to  me,  my  dear!" 
and,  for  wonder,  Lizzie  came. 

In  the  meantime  my  other  pet,  Mayflower,  had 
also  gotten  into  a  scrape.  She  had  driven  about  a 
huge  unwieldy  sow,  till  the  animal's  grunting  had 
disturbed  the  repose  of  a  still  more  enormous  New- 
foundland dog,  the  guardian  of  the  yard. 
The  beautiful  white  greyhound's  mocking  treat- 
ment of  the  surly  dog  on  the  chain  then  follows,  and 

82 


By  Swallowfield 

ather  pretty  scenes  and  adventures,  until  after  some 
mishaps  and  much  trouble  the  cowslip  ball  is  at  length 
completed. 

What  a  concentration  of  fragrance  and  beauty 
it   was !     Golden    and    sweet    to    satiety !    rich    in 
sight,  and  touch,  and  smell !     Lizzie  was  enchanted, 
and   ran   off  with   her  prize,   hiding   amongst   the 
trees  in    the    very   coyness    of   ecstasy,    as    if   any 
human  eye,   even  mine,  would  be   a   restraint  on 
her  innocent  raptures. 
Here  the  very  woman  is  revealed  to  us,  her  tender 
and   lively  disposition,   her   impulsiveness  and  child- 
like love  of  fun  and  delight  in  everything  on  earth. 
We  see  in  such  a  passage  what  her  merit  really  is,  the 
reason  of  our  liking  or   "partiality"   for  her.     Her 
pleasure  in  everything  makes  everything  interesting, 
and  in  displaying  her  feeling  without  art  or  disguise 
she  succeeds  in  giving  what  we  may  call  a  literary 
expression  to  personal  charm — that  quality  which  is 
almost    untranslatable    into    written   words.     Many 
women   possess    it;    it   is   in    them   and   issues    from 
them,  and  is  like  an  essential  oil  in  a  flower,  but  too 
volatile  to  be  captured  and  made  use  of.     Further- 
more,  women  when   they  write   are   as   a  rule   even 
more  conventional  than  men,  more  artificial  and  out 
of  and  away  from  themselves. 

I  do  not  know  that  any  literary  person  will  agree 
with  me;  I  have  gone  aside  to  write  about  Miss 
Mitford  mainly  for  my  own  satisfaction.  Frequently 
when  I  have  wanted  to  waste  half  an  hour  pleasantly 

83 


Afoot  in  England 

with  a  book  I  have  found  myself  picking  up  Our 
Village  from  among  many  others,  some  waiting  for  a 
first  perusal,  and  I  wanted  to  know  why  this  was  so 
— to  find  out,  if  not  to  invent,  some  reason  for  my 
liking  which  would  not  make  me  ashamed. 

At  Swallowfield  we  failed  to  find  a  place  to  stay  at; 
there  was  no  such  place;  and  of  the  inns,  named, 
I  think,  the  "Crown,"  "Cricketers,"  "Bird-in-the- 
Hand,"  and  "George  and  Dragon,"  only  one  was 
said  to  provide  accommodation  for  travellers  as  the 
law  orders,  but  on  going  to  the  house  we  were  in- 
formed that  the  landlord  or  his  wife  was  just  dead, 
or  dangerously  ill,  I  forget  which,  and  they  could 
take  no  one  in.  Accordingly,  we  had  to  trudge  back 
to  Three  Mile  Cross  and  the  old  ramshackle,  well- 
nigh  ruinous  inn  there.  It  was  a  wretched  place, 
smeUIng  of  mould  and  dry-rot;  however,  it  was  not 
so  bad  after  a  fire  had  been  lighted  in  the  grate,  but 
first  the  young  girl  who  waited  on  us  brought  in  a 
bundle  of  newspapers,  which  she  proceeded  to  thrust 
up  the  chimney-flue  and  kindle,  "to  warm  the  flue 
and  make  the  fire  burn,"  she  explained. 

On  the  following  day,  the  weather  being  milder, 
we  rambled  on  through  woods  and  lanes,  visiting 
several  villages,  and  arrived  in  the  afternoon  at  Sil- 
chester,  where  we  had  resolved  to  put  up  for  the 
night.  By  a  happy  chance  we  found  a  pleasant 
cottage  on  the  common  to  stay  at  and  pleasant  people 
in  it,  so  that  we  were  glad  to  sit  down  for  a  week 
there,  to  loiter  about  the  furzy  waste,  or  prowl  in 
the    forest    and    haunt    the    old    walls;    but    it    was 

84 


By  Swallowfield 

pleasant  even  Indoors  with  that  wide  prospect  before 
the  window,  the  wooded  country  stretching  many 
miles  away  to  the  hills  of  Kingsclere,  blue  in  the 
distance  and  crowned  with  their  beechcn  rings  and 
groves.  Of  Roman  Calleva  itself  and  the  thoughts 
I  had  there  I  will  write  in  the  following  chapter; 
here  I  will  only  relate  how  on  Easter  Sunday,  two 
days  after  arriving,  we  went  to  morning  service  in 
the  old  church  standing  on  a  mound  inside  the  walls, 
a  mile  from  the  village  and  common. 

It  came  to  pass  that  during  the  service  the  sun 
began  to  shine  very  brightly  after  several  days  of 
cloud  and  misty  windy  wet  weather,  and  that  bril- 
liance and  the  warmth  in  it  served  to  bring  a 
butterfly  out  of  hiding;  then  another;  then  a  third; 
red  admirals  all;  and  they  were  seen  through  all  the 
prayers,  and  psalms,  and  hymns,  and  lessons,  and 
the  sermon  preached  by  the  white-haired  Rector, 
fluttering  against  the  translucent  glass,  wanting  to  be 
out  in  that  splendour  and  renew  their  life  after  so 
long  a  period  of  suspension.  But  the  glass  was  between 
them  and  their  world  of  blue  heavens  and  woods 
and  meadow  flowers;  then  I  thought  that  after  the 
service  I  would  make  an  attempt  to  get  them  out; 
but  soon  reflected  that  to  release  them  It  would  be 
necessary  to  capture  them  first,  and  that  that  could  not 
be  done  without  a  ladder  and  butterfly  net.  Among 
the  women  (ladles)  on  either  side  of  and  before  me 
there  were  no  fewer  than  five  wearing  aigrettes  of 
egret  and  bird-of-paradlse  plumes  in  their  hats  or 
bonnets,  and  these  five  all  remained  to  take  part  in 

85 


Afoot  in  England 

that  ceremony  of  eating  bread  and  drinking  wine  in 
remembrance  of  an  event  supposed  to  be  of  impor- 
tance to  their  souls,  here  and  hereafter.  It  saddened 
me  to  leave  my  poor  red  admirals  in  their  prison, 
beating  their  red  wings  against  the  coloured  glass — 
to  leave  them  too  in  such  company,  where  the  aigrette 
wearers  were  worshipping  a  little  god  of  their  own 
little  imaginations,  who  did  not  create  and  does  not 
regard  the  swallow  and  dove  and  white  egret  and 
bird-of-paradise,  and  who  was  therefore  not  my  god 
and  whose  will  as  they  understood  it  was  nothing 
to  me. 

It  was  a  consolation  when  I  went  out,  still  thinking 
of  the  butterflies  in  their  prison,  and  stood  by  the 
old  ruined  walls  grown  over  with  ivy  and  crowned 
with  oak  and  holly  trees,  to  think  that  in  another  two 
thousand  years  there  will  be  no  archaeologist  and  no 
soul  in  Silchester,  or  anywhere  else  in  Britain,  or  in 
the  world,  who  would  take  the  trouble  to  dig  up  the 
remains  of  aigrette-wearers  and  their  works,  and  who 
would  care  what  had  become  of  their  pitiful  little 
souls — their  immortal  part. 


86 


Chapter  Seven:  Roman  Calleva 

An  afternoon  in  the  late  November  of  1903.  Frost, 
gales,  and  abundant  rains  have  more  than  half  stripped 
the  oaks  of  their  yellow  leaves.  But  the  rain  is  over 
now,  the  sky  once  more  a  pure  lucid  blue  above  me — all 
around  me,  in  fact,  since  I  am  standing  high  on  the  top 
of  the  ancient  stupendous  earthwork,  grown  over  with 
oak  wood  and  underwood  of  holly  and  thorn  and  hazel 
with  tangle  of  ivy  and  bramble  and  briar.  It  is  mar- 
vellously still;  no  sound  from  the  village  reaches  me; 
I  only  hear  the  faint  rustle  of  the  dead  leaves  as  they 
fall,  and  the  robin,  for  one  spied  me  here  and  has 
come  to  keep  me  company.  At  intervals  he  spurts 
out  his  brilliant  little  fountain  of  sound;  and  that 
sudden  bright  melody  and  the  bright  colour  of  the 
sunlit  translucent  leaves  seem  like  one  thing.  Nature 
is  still,  and  I  am  still,  standing  concealed  among  trees, 
or  moving  cautiously  through  the  dead  russet  bracken. 
Not  that  I  am  expecting  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the 
badger  who  has  his  hermitage  in  this  solitary  place, 
but  I  am  on  forbidden  ground,  in  the  heart  of  a 
sacred  pheasant  preserve,  where  one  must  do  one's 
prowling  warily.  Hard  by,  almost  within  a  stone's- 
throw  of  the  wood-grown  earthwork  on  which  I  stand, 
are  the  ruinous  walls  of  Roman  Calleva — the  Sil- 
chester  which  the  antiquarians  have  been  occupied  in 

87 


Afoot  in  England 

uncovering  these  dozen  years  or  longer.  The  stone 
walls,  too,  like  the  more  ancient  earthwork,  are  over- 
grown with  trees  and  brambles  and  ivy.  The  trees 
have  grown  upon  the  wall,  sending  roots  deep  down 
between  the  stones,  through  the  crumbling  cement; 
and  so  fast  are  they  anchored  that  never  a  tree  falls 
but  it  brings  down  huge  masses  of  masonry  with  it. 
This  slow  levelling  process  has  been  going  on  for 
centuries,  and  it  was  doubtless  in  this  way  that  the 
buildings  within  the  walls  were  pulled  down  long  ages 
ago.  Then  the  action  of  the  earth-worms  began,  and 
floors  and  foundations,  with  fallen  stones  and  tiles, 
were  gradually  buried  in  the  soil,  and  what  was  once  a 
city  was  a  dense  thicket  of  oak  and  holly  and  thorn. 
Finally  the  wood  was  cleared,  and  the  city  was  a  walled 
wheat  field — so  far  as  we  know,  the  ground  has  been 
cultivated  since  the  days  of  King  John.  But  the  entire 
history  of  this  green  walled  space  before  me — less  than 
twenty  centuries  in  duration — does  not  seem  so  very 
long  compared  with  that  of  the  huge  earthen  wall  I 
am  standing  on,  which  dates  back  to  prehistoric  times. 
Standing  here,  knee-deep  in  the  dead  ruddy  bracken, 
in  the  ^'coloured  shade"  of  the  oaks,  idly  watching 
the  leaves  fall  fluttering  tO'  the  ground,  thinking 
in  an  aimless  way  of  the  remains  of  the  two  ancient 
cities  before  me,  the  British  and  the  Roman,  and  of 
their  comparative  antiquity,  I  am  struck  with  the 
thought  that  the  sweet  sensations  produced  in  me  by 
the  scene  differ  in  character  from  the  feeling  I  have 
had  in  other  solitary  places.     The  peculiar  sense  of 

88 


Roman  Calleva 

satisfaction,  of  restfulness,  of  peace,  experienced  here 
is  very  perfect;  but  in  the  wilderness,  where  man  has 
never  been,  or  has  at  all  events  left  no  trace  of  his 
former  presence,  there  is  ever  a  mysterious  sense  of 
loneHness,  of  desolation,  underlying  our  pleasure  in 
nature.  Here  it  seems  good  to  know,  or  to  imagine, 
that  the  men  I  occasionally  meet  in  my  solitary 
rambles,  and  those  I  see  in  the  scattered  rustic  village 
hard  by,  are  of  the  same  race,  and  possibly  the  de- 
scendants, of  the  people  who  occupied  this  spot  in  the 
remote  past — Iberian  and  Celt,  and  Roman  and  Saxon 
and  Dane.  If  that  hard-featured  and  sour-visaged 
old  gamekeeper,  with  the  cold  blue  unfriendly  eyes, 
should  come  upon  me  here  in  my  hiding-place,  and 
scowl  as  he  is  accustomed  to  do,  standing  silent  before 
me,  gun  in  hand,  to  hear  my  excuses  for  trespassing 
in  his  preserves,  I  should  say  (mentally)  :  This  man  is 
distinctly  English,  and  his  far-off  progenitors,  some- 
where about  sixteen  hundred  years  ago,  probably  as- 
sisted at  the  massacre  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  pleasant 
little  city  at  my  feet.  By  and  by,  leaving  the  ruins, 
I  may  meet  with  other  villagers  of  different  features 
and  different  colour  in  hair,  skin,  and  eyes,  and  of  a 
pleasanter  expression;  and  in  them  I  may  see  the 
remote  descendants  of  other  older  races  of  men,  some 
who  were  lords  here  before  the  Romans  came,  and  of 
others  before  them,  even  back  to  Neolithic  times. 

This,  I  take  it,  is  a  satisfaction,  a  sweetness  and 
peace  to  the  soul  in  nature,  because  it  carries  with  it  a 
sense  of  the  continuity  of  the  human  race,  its  undying 

89 


Afoot  in  England 

vigour,  Its  everlastingness.  After  all  the  tempests 
that  have  overcome  it,  through  all  mutations  in  such 
immense  stretches  of  time,  how  stable  it  is ! 

I  recall  the  time  when  I  lived  on  a  vast  vacant  level 
green  plain,  an  earth  which  to  the  eye,  and  to  the 
mind  which  sees  with  the  eye,  appeared  illimitable, 
like  the  ocean;  where  the  house  I  was  born  in  was 
the  oldest  in  the  district — a  century  old,  it  was  said; 
where  the  people  were  the  children's  children  of 
emigrants  from  Europe  who  had  conquered  and 
colonized  the  country,  and  had  enjoyed  but  half  a 
^century  of  national  life.  But  the  people  who  had 
possessed  the  land  before  these  emigrants — what  of 
them?  They  were  but  a  memory,  a  tradition,  a 
story  told  in  books  and  hardly  more  to  us  than  a 
fable;  perhaps  they  had  dwelt  there  for  long  cen- 
turies, or  for  thousands  of  years;  perhaps'  they  had 
come,  a  wandering  horde,  to  pass  quickly  away  like  a 
flight  of  migrating  locusts;  for  no  mtemorial  existed, 
no  work  of  their  hands,  not  the  faintest  trace  of  their 
occupancy. 

Walking  one  day  at  the  side  of  a  ditch,  which  had 
been  newly  cut  through  a  meadow  at  the  end  of  our 
plantation,  I  caught  sight  of  a  small  black  object  pro- 
truding from  the  side  of  the  cutting,  which  turned  out 
to  be  a  fragment  of  Indian  pottery  made  of  coarse 
clay,  very  black,  and  rudely  ornamented  on  one  side. 
On  searching  further  a  few  more  pieces  were  found.  I 
took  them  .home  and  preserved  them  carefully,  ex- 
periencing a  novel  and  keen  sense  of  pleasure  in  their 
possession;   for   though  worthless,    they  were  man's 

90 


Roman  Calleva 

handiwork,  the  only  real  evidence  I  had  come  upon 
of  that  vanished  people  who  had  been  before  us;  and 
it  was  as  If  those  bits  of  baked  clay,  with  a  pattern 
Incised  on  them  by  a  man's  finger-nail,  had  in  them 
some  magical  property  which  enabled  me  to  realize 
the  past,  and  to  see  that  vacant  plain  repeopled  with 
long  dead  and  forgotten  men. 

Doubtless  we  all  possess  the  feeling  in  some 
degree — the  sense  of  loneliness  and  desolation  and 
dismay  at  the  thought  of  an  uninhabited  world,  and  of 
long  periods  when  man  was  not.  Is  It  not  the  absence 
of  human  life  or  remains  rather  than  the  illimitable 
wastes  of  thick-ribbed  ice  and  snow  which  daunts  us  at 
the  thought  of  Arctic  and  Antarctic  regions?  Again,  in 
the  story  of  the  earth,  as  told  by  geology,  do  we  not 
also  experience  the  same  sense  of  dismay,  and  the  soul 
shrinking  back  on  itself,  when  we  come  In  imagination 
to  those  deserts  desolate  In  time  when  the  continuity 
of  the  race  was  broken  and  the  world  dispeopled? 
The  doctrine  of  evolution  has  made  us  tolerant  of 
the  thought  of  human  animals — our  progenitors  as  we 
must  believe — ^who  were  of  brutish  aspect,  and  whose 
period  on  this  planet  was  so  long  that,  compared  with 
it,  the  historic  and  prehistoric  periods  are  but  as  the 
life  of  an  individual.  A  quarter  of  a  million  years  has 
perhaps  elapsed  since  the  beginning  of  that  cold  period 
which,  at  all  events  in  this  part  of  the  earth,  killed 
Palaeolithic  man;  yet  how  small  a  part  of  his  racial 
life  even  that  time  would  seem  if,  as  some  believe,  his 
remains  may  be  traced  as  far  back  as  the  Eocene  I 
But    after   this    rude   man    of    the    Quaternary   and 

91 


Afoot  in  England 

Tertiary  epochs  had  passed  away  there  is  a  void,  a 
period  which  to  the  imagination  seems  measureless, 
when  sun  and  moon  and  stars  looked  on  a  waste  and 
mindless  world.  When  man  once  more  reappears  he 
seems  to  have  been  re-created  on  somewhat  different 
lines. 

It  is  this  break  in  the  history  of  the  human  race 
which  amazes  and  daunts  us,  which  "shadows  forth 
the  heartless  voids  and  immensities  of  the  universe, 
and  thus  stabs  us  from  behind  with  the  thought  of  an- 
nihilationJ' 

Here,  in  these  words  of  Hermann  Melville,  we  are 
let  all  at  once  into  the  true  meaning  of  those  disquiet- 
ing and  seemingly  indefinable  emotions  so  often  ex- 
perienced, even  by  the  most  ardent  lovers  of  nature 
and  of  solitude,  in  uninhabited  deserts,  on  great 
mountains,  and  on  the  sea.  We  find  here  the  origin 
of  that  horror  of  mountains  which  was  so  common 
until  recent  times.  A  friend  once  confessed  to  me 
that  he  was  always  profoundly  unhappy  at  sea  during 
long  voyages,  and  the  reason  was  that  his  sustaining 
belief  in  a  superintending  Power  and  in  immortality 
left  him  when  he  was  on  that  waste  of  waters  which 
have  no  human  associations.  The  feeling,  so  intense 
in  his  case,  is  known  to  most  if  not  all  of  us;  but  we 
feel  it  faintly  as  a  disquieting  element  in  nature  of 
which  we  may  be  but  vaguely  conscious. 

Most  travelled  Englishmen  who  have  seen  much  of 
the  world  and  resided  for  long  or  short  periods  in  many 
widely  separated  countries  would  probably  agree  that 
there  is  a  vast  difference  in  the  feeling  of  strangeness, 

92 


Roman  Calleva 

or  want  of  harmony  with  our  surroundings,  experi- 
enced in  old  and  in  new  countries.  It  is  a  compound 
feeling  and  some  of  its  elements  are  the  same  in  both 
cases;  but  in  one  there  is  a  disquieting  element  which 
the  other  is  without.  Thus,  in  Southern  Europe, 
Egypt,  Syria,  and  in  many  countries  of  Asia,  and  some 
portions  of  Africa,  the  wanderer  from  home  might 
experience  dissatisfaction  and  be  ill  at  ease  and  wish 
for  old  familiar  sights  and  sounds;  but  in  a  colony 
like  Tasmania,  and  in  any  new  country  where  there 
were  no  remains  of  antiquity,  no  links  with  the  past, 
the  feeling  would  be  very  much  more  poignant,  and 
in  some  scenes  and  moods  would  be  like  that  sense  of 
desolation  which  assails  us  at  the  thought  of  the  heart- 
less voids  and  immensities  of  the  universe. 

He  recognizes  that  he  is  in  a  world  on  which  we 
have  but  recently  entered,  and  in  which  our  position 
is  not  yet  assured. 

Here,  standing  on  this  mound,  as  on  other  occa- 
sions past  counting,  I  recognize  and  appreciate  the 
enormous  difference  which  human  associations  make 
in  the  effect  produced  on  us  by  visible  nature.  In 
this  silent  solitary  place,  with  the  walled  field  which 
was  once  Calleva  Atrebatum  at  my  feet,  I  yet  have  a 
sense  of  satisfaction,  of  security,  never  felt  in  a  land 
that  had  no  historic  past.  The  knowledge  that  my 
individual  life  is  but  a  span,  a  breath;  that  In  a  little 
while  I  too  must  wither  and  mingle  like  one  of  those 
fallen  yellow  leaves  with  the  mould,  does  not  grieve 
me.  I  know  it  and  yet  disbelieve  It;  for  am  I  not 
here  alive,  where  men  have  inhabited  for  thousands  of 

93 


Afoot  in  England 

years,  feeling  what  I  now  feel — their  oneness  with 
everlasting  nature  and  the  undying  human  family? 
The  very  soil  and  wet  carpet  of  moss  on  which  their 
feet  were  set,  the  standing  trees  and  leaves,  green 
or  yellow,  the  rain-drops,  the  air  they  breathed,  the 
sunshine  in  their  eyes  and  hearts,  was  part  of  them, 
not  a  garment,  but  of  their  very  substance  and  spirit. 
Feeling  this,  death  becomes  an  illusion;  and  the 
illusion  that  the  continuous  life  of  the  species  (its 
Immortality)  and  the  individual  life  arc  one  and  the 
same  is  the  reahty  and  truth.  An  illusion,  but,  as 
Mill  says,  deprive  us  of  our  illusions  and  life  would 
be  intolerable.  Happily  we  are  not  easily  deprived 
of  them,  since  they  are  of  the  nature  of  instincts 
and  ineradicable.  And  this  very  one  which  our 
reason  can  prove  to  be  the  most  childish,  the  ab- 
surdist of  all,  is  yet  the  greatest,  the  most  fruitful 
of  good  for  the  race.  To  those  who  have  discarded 
supernatural  religion,  it  may  be  a  religion,  or  at  all 
events  the  foundation  to  build  one  on.  For  there  is  no 
comfort  to  the  healthy  natural  man  in  being  told  that 
the  good  he  does  will  not  be  interred  with  his  bones, 
since  he  does  not  wish  to  think,  and  in  fact  refuses  to 
think,  that  his  bones  will  ever  be  interred.  Joy  in  the 
"choir  invisible"  is  to  him  a  mere  poetic  fancy,*  or  at 
best  a  rarefied  transcendentalism,  which  fails  to  sustain 
him.  If  altruism,  or  the  religion  of  humanity,  is  a 
living  vigorous  plant,  and  as  some  believe  flourishes 
more  with  the  progress  of  the  centuries,  it  must,  like 
other  ''soul-growths,"  have  a  deeper,  tougher  woodier 
root  in  our  soil. 

94 


Chapter  Eight:  A  Cold  Day  At 
Silchester 

It  is  little  to  a  man's  profit  to  go  far  afield  if  his 
chief  pleasure  be  in  wild  life,  his  main  object 
to  get  nearer  to  the  creatures,  to  grow  day  by 
day  more  intimate  with  them,  and  to  see  each  day 
some  new  thing.  Yet  the  distance  has  the  same 
fascination  for  him  as  for  another — the  call  is  as 
sweet  and  persistent  in  his  ears.  If  he  is  on  a  green 
level  country  with  blue  hills  on  the  horizon,  then, 
especially  in  the  early  morning,  is  the  call  sweetest, 
most  irresistible.  Come  away — come  away:  this  blue 
world  has  better  things  than  any  in  that  green,  too 
familiar  place.  The  startling  scream  of  the  jay — you 
have  heard  it  a  thousand  times.  It  is  pretty  to  watch 
the  squirrel  in  his  chestnut-red  coat  among  the  oaks 
in  their  fresh  green  foliage,  full  of  fun  as  a  bright 
child,  eating  his  apple  like  a  child,  only  it  is  an  oak- 
apple,  shining  white  or  white  and  rosy-red,  in  his 
little  paws;  but  you  have  seen  it  so  many  times — 
come  away  I 

It  was  not  this  voice  alone  which  made  me  forsake 
the  green  oaks  of  Silchester  and  Pamber  Forest,  to 
ramble  for  a  season  hither  and  thither  in  Wiltshire, 
Dorset,  and  Somerset;  there  was  something  for  me 
to  do  in  those  places,  but  the  call  made  me  glad  to  go. 

95 


Afoot  in  England 

And  long  weeks — months^ — went  by  in  my  wander- 
ings, mostly  in  open  downland  country,  too  often 
under  gloomy  skies,  chilled  by  cold  winds  and  wetted 
by  cold  rains.  Then,  having  accomplished  my  pur- 
pose and  discovered  incidentally  that  the  call  had 
mocked  me  again,  as  on  so  many  previous  occasions, 
I  returned  once  more  to  the  old  familiar  green  place. 

Crossing  the  common,  I  found  that  where  it  had 
been  dry  in  spring  one  might  now  sink  to  his  knees 
in  the  bog;  also  that  the  snipe  which  had  vanished 
for  a  season  were  back  at  the  old  spot  where  they 
used  to  breed.  It  was  a  bitter  day  near  the  end  of 
an  unpleasant  summer,  with  the  wind  back)  in  the 
old  hateful  north-east  quarter;  but  the  sun  shone, 
the  sky  was  blue,  and  the  flying  clouds  were  of  a 
dazzling  whiteness.  Shivering,  I  remembered  the 
south  wall,  and  went  there,  since  to  escape  from  the 
wind  and  bask  like  some  half-frozen  serpent  or  lizard 
in  the  heat  was  the  highest  good  one  could  look  for 
in  such  weather.  To  see  anything  new  in  wild  life 
was  not  to  be  hoped  for. 

That  old  grey,  crumbling  wall  of  ancient  Callcva, 
crowned  with  big  oak  and  ash  and  thorn  and  holly, 
and  draped  with  green  bramble  and  trailing  ivy  and 
creepers — how  good  a  shelter  it  is  on  a  cold,  rough 
day  I  Moving  softly,  so  as  not  to  disturb  any 
creature,  I  yet  disturbed  a  ring  snake  lying  close  to 
the  wall,  into  which  it  quickly  vanished;  and  then 
from  their  old  place  among  the  stones  a  pair  of  blue 
stock-doves  rushed  out  with  clatter  of  wings.  The 
same  blue  doves  which  I  had  known  for  three  years 

96 


A  Cold  Day  at  Silchester 

at  that  spot !  A  few  more  steps  and  I  came  upon  as 
pretty  a  little  •  scene  in  bird  life  as  one  could  wish 
for:  twenty  to  twenty-five  small  birds  of  different 
species — tits,  wrens,  dunnocks,  thrushes,  blackbirds, 
chaffinches,  yellow-hammers — were  congregated  on  the 
lower  outside  twigs  of  a  bramble  bush  and  on  the 
bare  ground  beside  it  close  to  the  foot  of  the  wall. 
The  sun  shone  full  on  that  spot,  and  they  had  met 
for  warmth  and  for  company.  The  tits  and  wrens 
were  moving  quietly  about  in  the  bush;  others  were 
sitting  idly  or  preening  their  feathers  on  the  twigs  or 
the  ground.  Most  of  them  were  making  some  kind 
of  small  sound — little  exclamatory  chirps,  and  a 
variety  of  chirrupings,  producing  the  effect  of  a 
pleasant  conversation  going  on  among  them.  This 
was  suddenly  suspended  on  my  appearance,  but  the 
alarm  was  soon  over,  and,  seeing  me  seated  on  a 
fallen  stone  and  motionless,  they  took  no  further 
notice  of  me.  Two  blackbirds  were  there,  sitting  a 
little  way  apart  on  the  bare  ground;  these  were  silent, 
the  raggedest,  rustiest-looking  members  of  that  little 
company;  for  they  were  moulting,  and  their  droop- 
ing wings  and  tails  had  many  unsightly  gaps  in  them 
where  the  old  feathers  had  dropped  out  before  the 
new  ones  had  grown.  They  were  suffering  from  that 
annual  sickness  with  temporary  loss  of  their  brightest 
faculties  which  all  birds  experience  in  some  degree; 
the  unseasonable  rains  and  cold  winds  had  been  bad 
for  them,  and  now  they  were  having  their  sun-bath, 
their  best  medicine  and  cure. 

By  and  by  a  pert-looking,  bright-feathered,  dapper 

97 


Afoot  m  England 

cock  chaffinch  dropped  down  from  the  bush,  and, 
advancing  to  one  of  the  two,  the  rustiest  and  most 
forlorn-looking,  started  running  round  and  round 
him  as  if  to  make  a  close  inspection  of  his  figure, 
then  began  to  tease  him.  At  first  I  thought  it  was 
all  in  fun — merely  animal  spirit  which  in  birds  often 
discharges  itself  in  this  way  in  little  pretended  at- 
tacks and  fights.  But  the  blackbird  had  no  play  and 
no  fight  in  him,  no  heart  to  defend  himself;  all  he  did 
was  to  try  to  avoid  the  strokes  aimed  at  him,  and  he 
could  not  always  escape  them.  His  spiritlessness 
served  to  inspire  the  chaffinch  with  greater  boldness, 
and  then  it  appeared  that  the  gay  little  cr,eature  was 
really  and  truly  incensed,  possibly  because  the  rusty, 
draggled,  and  listless  appearance  of  the  larger  bird 
was  offensive  to  him.  Anyhow,  the  persecutions  con- 
tinued, increasing  in  fury  until  they  could  not  be  borne, 
and  the  blackbird  tried  to  escape  by  hiding  in  the 
bramble.  But  he  was  not  permitted  to  rest  there;  out 
he  was  soon  driven  and  away  into  another  bush,  and 
again  into  still  another  further  away,  and  finally  he 
was  hunted  over  the  sheltering  wall  into  the  bleak 
wind  on  the  other  side.  Then  the  persecutor  came 
back  and  settled  himself  on  his  old  perch  on  the  bram- 
ble, well  satisfied  at  his  victory  over  a  bird  so  much 
bigger  than  himself.  All  was  again  peace  and  har- 
mony In  the  little  social  gathering,  and  the  pleasant 
talkee-talkee  went  on  as  before.  About  five  minutes 
passed,  then  the  hunted  blackbird  returned,  and, 
going  to  the  identical  spot  from  which  he  had  been 

98 


A  Cold  Day  at  Silchester 

driven,  composed  himself  to  rest;  only  now  he  sat 
facing  his  lively  little  enemy. 

I  was  astonished  to  see  him  back;  so,  apparently, 
was  the  chaffinch.  H*e  started,  craned  his  neck,  and 
regarded  his  adversary  first  with  one  eye  then  with 
the  other.  "What,  rags  and  tatters,  back  again 
so  soon !''  I  seem  to  hear  him  say.  "You  miserable 
travesty  of  a  bird,  scarcely  fit  for  a  weasel  to  dine 
on!  Your  presence  is  an  insult  to  us,  but  I'll  soon 
settle  you.  You'll  feel  the  cold  on  the  other  side  of 
the  wall  when  I've  knocked  off  a  few  more  of  your 
rusty  rags." 

Down  from  his  perch  he  came,  but  no  sooner  had 
he  touched  his  feet  to  the  ground  than  the  blackbird 
went  straight  at  him  with  extraordinary  fury.  The 
chaffinch,  taken  by  surprise,  was  buffeted  and  knocked 
over,  then,  recovering  himself,  fled  in  consternation, 
hotly  pursued  by  the  sick  one.  Into  the  bush  they 
went,  but  in  a  moment  they  were  out  again,  darting 
this  way  and  that,  now  high  up  in  the  trees,  now 
down  to  the  ground,  the  blackbird  always  close 
behind;  and  no  little  bird  flying  from  a  hawk  could 
have  exhibited  a  greater  terror  than  that  pert  chaffinch 
— that  vivacious  and  most  pugnacious  little  cock 
bantam.  At  last  they  went  quite  away,  and  were  lost 
to  sight.  By  and  by  the  blackbird  returned  alone, 
and,  going  once  more  to  his  place  near  the  second 
bird,  he  settled  down  comfortably  to  finish  his  sun- 
bath  in  peace  and  quiet. 

I  had  assuredly  witnessed  a  new  thing  on  that  un- 

99 


Afoot  in  England 

promising  day,  something  quite  different  from  any- 
thing witnessed  in  my  wide  rambles;  and,  though  a 
little  thing,  it  had  been  a  most  entertaining  comedy 
in  bird  life  with  a  very  proper  ending.  It  was  clear 
that  the  sick  blackbird  had  bitterly  resented  the  treat- 
ment he  had  received;  that,  brooding  on  it  out  in 
the  cold,  his  anger  had  made  him  strong,  and  that 
he  came  back  determined  to  fight,  with  his  plan  of 
action  matured.  He  was  not  going  to  be  made  a 
fool  every  time ! 

The  birds  all  gone  their  several  ways  at  last,  I 
got  up  from  my  stone  and  wondered  if  the  old  Romans 
ever  dreamed  that  this  wall  which  they  made  to  endure 
would  after  seventeen  hundred  years  have  no  more 
important  use  than  this — to  afford  shelter  to  a  few 
httle  birds  and  to  the  solitary  man  that  watched 
them  from  the  bleak  wind.  Many  a  strange  Roman 
curse  on  this  ungenial  cHmate  must  these  same  stones 
have  heard. 

Looking  through  a  gap  in  the  wall  I  saw,  close  by, 
on  the  other  side,  a  dozen  men  at  work  with  pick 
and  shovel  throwing  up  huge  piles  of  earth.  They 
were  uncovering  a  small  portion  of  that  ancient 
buried  city  and  were  finding  the  foundations  and 
floors  and  hypocausts  of  Silchester's  public  baths; 
also  some  broken  pottery  and  trifling  ornaments  of 
bronze  and  bone.  The  workmen  in  that  bitter  wind 
were  decidedly  better  off  than  the  gentlemen  from 
Burlington  House  in  charge  of  the  excavations. 
These  stood  with  coats  buttoned  up  and  hands  thrust 
deep  down  in  their  pockets.     It  seemed  to  me  that 

100 


A  Cold  Day  at  Silchester 

It  was  better  to  sit  in  the  shelter  of  the  wall  and 
watch  the  birds  than  to  burrow  in  the  crumbling 
dust  for  that  small  harvest.  Yet  I  could  understand 
and  even  appreciate  their  work,  although  it  is  prob- 
able that  the  glow  I  experienced  was  in  part  reflected. 
Perhaps  my  mental  attitude,  when  standing  in  that 
sheltered  place,  and  when  getting  on  to  the  windy 
wall  I  looked  down  on  the  workers  and  their  work, 
was  merely  benevolent.  I  had  pleasure  in  their 
pleasure,  and  a  vague  desire  for  a  better  understand- 
ing, a  closer  alliance  and  harmony.  It  was  the  desire 
that  we  might  all  see  nature — the  globe  with  all  it 
contains — as  one  harmonious  whole,  not  as  groups 
of  things,  or  phenomena,  unrelated,  cast  there  by 
chance  or  by  careless  or  contemptuous  gods.  This 
dust  of  past  ages,  dug  out  of  a  wheat-field,  with  its 
fragments  of  men's  work — its  pottery  and  tiles  and 
stones — this  is  a  part,  too,  even  as  the  small  birds, 
with  their  little  motives  and  passions,  so  like  man's, 
are  a  part.  I  thought  with  self  shame  of  my  own 
sins  in  this  connection;  then,  considering  the  lesser 
faults  on  the  other  side,  I  wished  that  Mr.  St.  John 
Hope  would  experience  a  like  softening  mood  and 
regret  that  he  had  abused  the  Ivy.  It  grieves  me  to 
hear  it  called  a  ''noxious  weed."  That  perished 
people,  whose  remains  In  this  land  so  deeply  interest 
him,  were  the  mightiest  "builders  of  ruins"  the 
world  has  known;  but  who  except  the  archaeologist 
would  wish  to  see  these  piled  stones  in  their  naked 
harshness,  striking  the  mind  with  dismay  at  the 
thought  of  Time   and  Its  perpetual  desolations!     I 

lOI 


Afoot  in  England 

like  better  the  old  Spanish  poet  who  says,  ^'What 
of  Rome;  its  world-conquering  power,  and  majesty 
and  glory — what  has  it  come  to?"  The  ivy  on  the 
wall,  the  yellow  wallflower,  tell  it.  A  "deadly  para- 
site" quotha!  Is  it  not  well  that  this  plant,  this 
evergreen  tapestry  of  innumerable  leaves,  should 
cover  and  partly  hide  and  partly  reveal  the  "strange 
defeatures"  the  centuries  have  set  on  man's  greatest 
works?  I  would  have  no  ruin  nor  no  old  and  noble 
building  without  it;  for  not  only  does  it  beautify  decay, 
but  from  long  association  it  has  come  to  be  in  the 
mind  a  very  part  of  such  scenes  and  so  interwoven 
with  the  human  tragedy,  that,  like  the  churchyard 
yew,  it  seems  the  most  human  of  green  things. 

Here  in  September  great  masses  of  the  plant  are 
already  showing  a  greenish  cream-colour  of  the  open- 
ing blossoms,  which  will  be  at  their  perfection  in 
October.  Then,  when  the  sun  shines,  there  will  be 
no  lingering  red  admiral,  nor  blue  fly  or  fly  of  any 
colour,  nor  yellow  wasp,  nor  any  honey-eating  or 
late  honey-gathering  insect  that  will  not  be  here  to 
feed  on  the  ivy's  sweetness.  And  behind  the  blossom- 
ing curtain,  alive  with  the  minute,  multitudinous, 
swift-moving,  glittering  forms,  some  nobler  form  will 
be  hidden  In  a  hole  or  fissure  in  the  wall.  Here  on 
many  a  night  I  have  listened  to  the  sibilant  screech 
of  the  white  owl  and  the  brown  owl's  clear,  long- 
drawn>  quavering  lamentation: — 

"Good  Ivy,  what  byrdys  hast  thou?'* 
"Non  but  the  Howlet,  that  How!  How!'* 


102 


Chapter  Nine:  Rural  Rides 

A-hirding  on  a  Broncho  is  the  title  of  a  charming 
little  book  published  some  years  ago,  and  probably 
better  known  to  readers  on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlan- 
tic than  in  England.  I  remember  reading  it  with 
pleasure  and  pride  on  account  of  the  author's  name, 
Florence  Merriam,  seeing  that,  on  my  mother's  side, 
I  am  partly  a  Merriam  myself  (of  the  branch  on  the 
other  side  of  the  Atlantic) ,  and  having  been  informed 
that  all  of  that  rare  name  are  of  one  family,  I  took  it 
that  we  were  related,  though  perhaps  very  distantly. 
A-hird'ing  on  a  Broncho  suggested  an  equally  allitera- 
tive title  for  this  chapter — "Birding  on  a  Bike";  but 
I  will  leave  it  to  others,  for  those  who  go  a-birding  are 
now  very  many  and  are  hard  put  to  find  fresh  titles  to 
their  books.  For  several  reasons  it  will  suit  me  better 
to  borrow  from  Cobbett  and  name  this  chapter  "Ru- 
ral Rides." 

Some  of  us  do  not  go  out  on  bicycles  to  observe 
the  ways  of  birds.  Indeed,  some  of  our  common 
species  have  grown  almost  too  familiar  with  the 
wheel:  it  has  become  a  positive  danger  to  them. 
They  not  infrequently  mistake  its  rate  of  speed  and  in- 
jure themselves  in  attempting  to  fly  across  it.  Recently 
I  had  a  thrush  knock  himself  senseless  against  the 
spokes  of  my  forewheel,  and  cycling  friends  have  told 

103 


Afoot  in  England 

me  of  similar  experiences  they  have  had,  In  some  In- 
stances the  heedless  birds  getting  killed.     Chaffinches 
are  like  the  children  in  village  streets — they  will  not 
get  out  of  your  way;  by  and  by  in  rural  places  the 
merciful  man  will  have  to  ring  his  bell  almost  inces- 
santly to  avoid  running  over  them.     As  I  do  not  travel 
at  a  furious  speed  I  manage  to  avoid  most  things,  even 
the  wandering  loveless  oil-beetle  and  the  small  rose- 
beetle  and  that  slow-moving  insect  tortoise  the  tumble- 
dung.     Two  or  three  seasons  ago  I  was  so  unfortunate 
as  to  run  over  a  large  and  beautifully  bright  grass 
snake    near  Aldermaston,    once    a    snake    sanctuary. 
He  writhed  and  wriggled  on  the  road  as  if  I  had 
broken  his  back,  but  on  picking  him  up  I  was  pleased 
to  find  that  my  wind-inflated  rubber   tyrd  had  not, 
like   the  brazen  chariot  wheel,   crushed  his   delicate 
vertebra;   he   quickly  recovered,    and  when   released 
glided   swiftly   and   easily   away   into    cover.     Twice 
only  have  I  deliberately  tried  to  run  down,  to  tread 
on  coat-tails  so  to  speak,  of  any  wild  creature.     One 
was  a  weasel,  the  other  a  stoat,  running  along  at  a 
hedge-side  before  me.     In  both  instances,  just  as  the 
front  wheel  was  touching  the  tail,  the  little  flat-headed 
rascal  swerved  quickly  aside  and  escaped. 

Even  some  of  the  less  common  and  less  tame 
birds  care  as  little  for  a  man  on  a  bicycle  as  they  do 
for  a  cow.  Not  long  ago  a  peewit  trotted  leisurely 
across  the  road  not  more  than  ten  yards  from  my 
front  wheel;  and  on  the  same  day  I  came  upon  a 
green  woodpecker  enjoying  a  dust-bath  in  the  public 
road.     He  declined  to  stir  until  I  stopped  to  watch 

104 


Rural  Rides 

him,  then  merely  flew  about  a  dozen  yards  away  and 
attached  himself  to  the  trunk  of  a  fir  tree  at  the  road- 
side and  waited  there  for  me  to  go.  Never  In  all  my 
wanderings  afoot  had  I  seen  a  yaffingale  dusting  him- 
self like  a  barn-door  fowl  I 

It  Is  not  seriously  contended  that  birds  can  be 
observed  narrowly  In  this  easy  way;  but  even  for  the 
most  conscientious  field  naturalist  the  wheel  has  its 
advantages.  It  carries  him  quickly  over  much  barren 
ground  and  gives  him  a  better  view  of  the  country  he 
traverses;  finally,  It  enables  him  to  see  more  birds. 
He  will  sometimes  see  thousands  In  a  day  where, 
walking,  he  would  hardly  have  seen  .  hundreds,  and 
there  Is  joy  In  mere  numbers.  It  was  just  to  get  this 
general  rapid  sight  of  the  bird  life  of  the  neighbouring 
hilly  district  of  Hampshire  that  I  was  at  Newbury  on 
the  last  day  of  October.  The  weather  was  bright 
though  very  cold  and  windy,  and  towards  evening  I 
was  surprised  to  see  about  twenty  swallows  in  North- 
brook  Street  flying  languidly  to  and  fro  In  the  shelter 
of  the  houses,  often  fluttering  under  the  eaves  and  at 
intervals  sitting  on  ledges  and  projections.  These 
belated  birds  looked  as  if  they  wished  to  hibernate,  or 
find  the  most  cosy  holes  to  die  in,  rather  than  to 
emigrate.  On  the  following  day  at  noon  they  came 
out  again  and  flew  up  and  down  in  the  same  feeble 
aimless  manner. 

Undoubtedly  a  few  swallows  of  all  three  species, 
but  mostly  house-martins,  do  *'lie  up"  In  England 
every  winter,  but  probably  very  few  survive  to  the 
following  spring.     We  should  have  said  that  it  was 

105 


Afoot  in  England 

impossible  that  any  should  survive  but  for  one 
authentic  instance  in  recent  years,  in  which  a  barn- 
swallow  lived  through  the  winter  in  a  semi-torpid 
state  in  an  outhouse  at  a  country  vicarage.  What 
came  of  the  Newbury  birds  I  do  not  know,  as  I  left 
on  the  2nd  of  November — tore  myself  away,  I  may 
say,  for,  besides  meeting  with  people  I  didn't  know 
who  treated  a  stranger  with  sweet  friendliness,  it  is  a 
town  which  quickly  wins  one's  affections.  It  is  built 
of  bricks  of  a  good  deep  rich  red — not  the  painfully 
bright  red  so  much  in  use  now — and  no  person  has 
had  the  bad  taste  to  spoil  the  harmony  by  introducing 
stone  and  stucco.  Moreover,  Newbury  has,  in  Shaw 
House,  an  Elizabethan  mansion  of  the  rarest  beauty. 
Let  him  that  is  weary  of  the  ugliness  and  discords  in 
our  town  buildings  go  and  stand  by  the  ancient  cedar 
at  the  gate  and  look  across  the  wide  green  lawn  at  this 
restful  house,  subdued  by  time  to  a  tender  rosy-red 
colour  on  its  walls  and  a  deep  dark  red  on  its  roof, 
clouded  with  grey  of  lichen. 

From  Newbury  and  the  green  meadows  of  the 
Kennet  the  Hampshire  hills  may  be  seen,  looking  like 
the  South  Down  range  at  its  highest  point  viewed 
from  the  Sussex  Weald.  I  made  for  Coombe  Hill, 
the  highest  hill  in  Hampshire,  and  found  it  a  con- 
siderable labour  to  push  my  machine  up  from  the 
pretty  tree-hidden  village  of  East  Woodhay  at  its 
foot.  The  top  is  a  league-long  tableland,  with 
stretches  of  green  elastic  turf,  thickets  of  furze  and 
bramble,  and  clumps  of  ancient  noble  beeches — a 
beautiful  lonely  wilderness  with  rabbits  and  birds  for 

io6 


Rural  Rides 

only  inhabitants.  From  the  highest  point  where  a 
famous  gibbet  stands  for  ever  a  thousand  feet  above 
the  sea  and  where  there  Is  a  dew-pond,  the  highest  in 
England,  which  has  never  dried  up  although  a  large 
flock  of  sheep  drink  In  It  every  summer  day,  one 
looks  down  Into  an  Immense  hollow,  a  Devil's  Punch 
Bowl  very  many  times  magnified, 'and  spies,  far  away 
and  far  below,  a  few  lonely  houses  half  hidden  by 
trees  at  the  bottom.  This  Is  the  romantic  village  of 
Coombe,  and  hither  I  went  and  found  the  vicar  busy 
in  the  garden  of  the  small  old  picturesque  parsonage. 
Here  a  very  pretty  little  bird  comedy  was  in  progress  : 
a  pair  of  stock-doves  which  had  been  taken  from  a 
rabbit-hole  in  the  hill  and  reared  by  hand  had  just 
escaped  from  the  large  cage  where  they  had  always 
lived,  and  all  the  family  were  excitedly  engaged  in 
trying  to  recapture  them.  They  were  delightful  to  see 
— those  two  pretty  blue  birds  with  red  legs  running 
busily  about  on  the  green  lawn,  eagerly  searching  for 
something  to  eat  and  finding  nothing.  They  were 
quite  tame  and  willing  to  be  fed,  so  that  anyone  could 
approach  them  and  put  as  much  salt  on  their  tails  as 
he  liked,  but  they  refused  to  be  touched  or  taken; 
they  were  too  happy  In  their  new  freedom,  running 
and  flying  about  In  that  brilliant  sunshine,  and  when  I 
left  towards  the  evening  they  were  still  at  large. 

But  before  quitting  that  small  Isolated  village  In 
its  green  basin — a  human  heart  in  a  chalk  hill,  almost 
the  highest  in  England — I  wished  the  hours  I  spent  In 
it  had  been  days,  so  much  was  there  to  see  and  hear. 
There  was  the  gibbet  on  the  hill,  for  example,  far  up 

107 


Afoot  in  England 

on  the!  rim  of  the  green  basin,  four  hundred  feet 
above  the  village;  why  had  that  memorial,  that 
symbol  of  a  dreadful  past,  been  preserved  for  so 
many  years  and  generations?  and  why  had  it  been 
raised  so  high — was  it  because  the  crime  of  the 
person  put  to  death  there  was  of  so  monstrous  a 
nature  that  it  was  determined  to  suspend  him,  if  not 
on  a  gibbet  fifty  cubits  high,  at  all  events  higher  above 
the  earth  than  Haman  the  son  of  Hammedatha  the 
Agagite?     The  gruesome  story  is  as  follows. 

Once  upon  a  time  there  lived  a  poor  widow  woman 
in  Coombe,  with  two  sons,  aged  fourteen  and  sixteen, 
who  worked  at  a  farm  in  the  village.  She  had  a 
lover,  a  middle-aged  man,  living  at  Woodhay,  a 
carrier  who  used  to  go  on  two  or  three  days  each 
week  with  his  cart  to  deliver  parcels  at  Coombe.  But 
he  was  a  married  man,  and  as  he  could  not  marry  the 
widow  while  his  wife  remained  alive,  it  came  into  his 
dull  Berkshire  brain  that  the  only  way  out  of  the 
difficulty  was  to  murder  her,  and  to  this  course  the 
widow  probably  consented.  Accordingly,  one  day, 
he  invited  or  persuaded  her  to  accompany  him  on 
his  journey  to  the  remote  village,  and  on  the  way  he 
got  her  out  of  the  cart  and  led  her  into  a  close 
thicket  to  show  her  something  he  had  discovered 
there.  What  he  wished  to  show  her  (according  to 
one  version  of  the  story)  was  a  populous  hornets' 
nest,  and  having  got  her  there  he  suddenly  flung 
her  against  It  and  made  off,  leaving  the  cloud  of  in- 
furiated hornets  to  sting  her  to  death.  That  night 
he  slept  at  Coombe,  or  stayed  till  a  very  late  hour  at 

io8 


Rural  Rides 

the  widow's  cottage  and  told  her  what  he  had  done. 
In  telling  her  he  had  spoken  in  his  ordinary  voice, 
but  by  and  by  it  occurred  to  him  that  the  two  boys, 
who  were  sleeping  close  by  in  the  living-room,  might 
have   been    awake    and   listening.     She    assured    him 
that   they   were   both   fast   asleep,    but   he    was   not 
satisfied,    and   said'  that   if  they  had  heard  him  he 
would  kill  them  both,  as  he  had  no  wish  to  swing, 
and  he  could  not  trust  them  to  hold  their  tongues. 
Thereupon  they  got  up  and  examined  the   faces  of 
the  two  boys,  holding  a  candle  over  them,  and  saw 
that  they  were  in  a  deep  sleep,  as  was  natural  after 
their   long  day's   hard  work  on   the   farm,   and  the 
murderer's  fears  were  set  at  rest.     Yet  one  of  the 
boys,  the  younger,  had  been  wide  awake  all  the  time, 
listening,   trembling  with  terror,   with  wide   eyes   to 
the  dreadful  tale,   and  only  when  they  first  became 
suspicious  instinct  came  to  his  aid  and  closed  his  eyes 
and  stilled  his  tremors  and  gave  him  the  appearance 
of  being  asleep.     Early  next  morning,  with  his  terror 
still    on   him,    he    told   what    he    had   heard   to    his 
brother,  and  by  and  by,  unable  to  keep  the  dreadful 
secret,  they  related  it  to  someone — a  carter  or  plough- 
man on  the  farm.     He  in  turn  told  the  farmer,  who 
at  once  gave  information,   and  in  a  short  time  the 
man  and  woman  were   arrested.     In  due  time  they 
were  tried,  convicted,  and  sentenced  to  be  hanged  in 
the  parish  where  the  crime  had  been  committed. 

Everybody  was  delighted,  and  Coombe  most 
delighted  of  all,  for  It  happened  that  some  of  their 
wise  people  had  been  diligently  examining  Into   the 

109 


Afoot  in  England 

matter  and  had  made  the  discovery  that  the  woman 
had  been  murdered  just  outside  their  borders  in  the 
adjoining  parish  of  Inkpen,  so  that  they  were  going 
Co  enjoy  seeing  the  wicked  punished  at  somebody 
else's  expense.  Inkpen  was  furious  and  swore  that 
it  would  not  be  saddled  with  the  cost  of  a  great 
public  double  execution.  The  hne  dividing  the  two 
parishes  had  always  been  a  doubtful  one;  now  they 
were  going  to  take  the  benefit  of  the  doubt  and  let 
Coombe  hang  its  own  miscreants ! 

As  neither  side  would  yield,  the  higher  authorities 
were  compelled  to  settle  the  matter  for  them,  and 
ordered  the  cost  to  be  divided  between  the  two 
parishes,  the  gibbet  to  be  erected  on  the  boundary 
line,  as  far  as  it  could  be  ascertained.  This  was 
accordingly  done,  the  gibbet  being  erected  at  the 
highest  point  crossed  by  the  line,  on  a  stretch  of 
beautiful  smooth  elastic  turf,  among  prehistoric 
earthworks^ — a  spot  commanding  one  of  the  finest 
and  most  extensive  views  in  Southern  England.  The 
day  appointed  for  the  execution  brought  the  greatest 
concourse  of  people  ever  witnessed  at  that  lofty  spot, 
at  all  events  since  prehistoric  times.  If  some  of  the 
ancient  Britons  had  come  out  of  their  graves  to  look 
on,  seated  on  their  earthworks,  they  would  have 
probably  rubbed  their  ghostly  hands  together  and 
remarked  to  each  other  that  it  reminded  them  of  old 
times.  All  classes  were  there,  from  the  nobility  and 
gentry,  on  horseback  and  in  great  coaches  in  which 
they  carried  their  own  provisions,  to  the  meaner  sort 
who  had  trudged  from  all  the  country  round  on  foot, 

IIO 


Rural  Rides 

and  those  who  had  not  brought  their  own  food  and 
beer  were  catered  for  by  traders  in  carts.  The  crowd 
was  a  hilarious  one,  and  no  doubt  that  grand  picnic 
on  the  beacon  was  the  talk  of  the^  country  for  a 
generation  or  longer. 

The  two  wretches  having  been  hanged  in  chains  on 
one  gibbet  were  left  to  be  eaten  by  ravens,  crows,  and 
magpipes,  and  dried  by  sun  and  winds,  until,  after 
long  years,  the  swinging,  creaking  skeletons  with  their 
chains  on  fell  to  pieces  and  were  covered  with  the 
turf,  but  the  gibbet  itself  was  never  removed. 

Then  a  strange  thing  happened.  The  sheep  on  a 
neighbouring  farm  became  thin  and  sickly  and  yielded 
little  wool  and  died  before  their  time.  No  remedies 
availed  and  the  secret  of  their  malady  could  not  be 
discovered;  but  it  went  on  so  long  that  the  farmer 
was  threatened  with  utter  ruin.  Then,  by  chance,  it 
was  discovered  that  the  chains  in  which  the  murderers 
had  been  hanged  had  been  thrown  by  some  evil- 
minded  person  into  a  dew-pond  on  the  farm.  This 
was  taken  to  be  the  cause  of  the  malady  in  the  sheep ; 
at  all  events,  the  chains  having  been  taken  out  of  the 
pond  and  buried  deep  in  the  earth,  the  flock  re- 
covered: it  was  supposed  that  the  person  who  had 
thrown  the  chains  in  the  water  to  poison  it  had  done 
so  to  ruin  the  farmer  in  revenge  for  some  injustice  or 
grudge. 

But  even  now  we  are  not  quite  done  with  the 
gibbet!  Many,  many  years  had  gone  by  when  Inkpen 
discovered  from  old  documents  that  their  little  dis- 
honest neighbour,  Coombe,  had  taken  more  land  than 

III 


Afoot  in  England 

she  was  entitled  to,  that  not  only  a  part  but  the 
whole  of  that  noble  hill-top  belonged  to  her !  It  was 
Inkpen's  turn  to  chuckle  now;  but  she  chuckled  too 
soon,  and  Coombe,  running  out  to  look,  found  the 
old  rotten  stump  of  the  gibbet  still  in  the  ground. 
Hands  off !  she  cried.  Here  stands  a  post,  which 
youi  set  up  yourself,  or  which  we  put  up  together 
and  agreed  that  this  should  be  the  boundary  line  for 
ever.  Inkpen  sneaked  off  to  hide  herself  in  her 
village,  and  Coombe,  determined  to  keep  the  subject 
in  mind,  set  up  a  brand-new  stout  gibbet  In  the  place 
of  the  old  rotting  one.  That  too  decayed  and  fell  to 
pieces  in  time,  and  the  present  gibbet  is  therefore 
the  third,  and  nobody  has  ever  been  hanged  on  it. 
Coombe  is  rather  proud  of  it,  but  I  am  not  sure  that 
Inkpen  is. 

That  was  one  of  three  strange  events  In  the  life  of 
the  village  which  I  heard:  the  other  two  must  be 
passed  by;  they  would  take  long  to  tell  and  require 
a  good  pen  to  do  them  justice.  To  me  the  best 
thing  in  or  of  the  village  was  the  vicar  himself, 
my  put-upon  host,  a  man  of  so  blithe  a  nature,  so 
human  and  companionable,  that  when  I,  a  perfect 
stranger  without  an  introduction  or  any  excuse  for 
such  intrusion  came  down  like  a  wolf  on  his  luncheon- 
table,  he  received  me  as  if  I  had  been  an  old  friend  or 
one  of  his  own  kindred,  and  freely  gave  up  his  time 
to  me  for  the  rest  of  that  day.  To  count  his  years 
he  was  old:  he  had  been  vicar  of  Coombe  for  half  a 
century,  but  he  was  a  young  man  still  and  had  never 
had  a  day's  illness  In  his  life — ^he  did  not  know  what  a 

112 


Rural  Rides 

headache  was.  He  smoked  with  me,  and  to  prove 
that  he  was  not  a  total  abstainer  he  drank  my  health 
in  a  glass  of  port  wine — very  good  wine.  It  was 
Coombe  that  did  it — its  peaceful  life,  isolated  from 
a  distracting  world  in  that  hollow  hill,  and  the 
marvellous  purity  of  its  air.  "Sitting  there  on  my 
lawn,"  he  said,  '*you  are  six  hundred  feet  above  the 
sea,  although  in  a  hollow  four  hundred  feet  deep."  It 
was  an  ideal  open-air  room,  round  and  green,  with  the 
sky  for  a  roof.  In  winter  it  was  sometimes  very 
cold,  and  after  a  heavy  fall  of  snow  the  scene  was 
strange  and  impressive  from  the  tiny  village  set  in  its 
stupendous  dazzling  white  bowl.  Not  only  on  those 
rare  arctic  days,  but  at  all  times  it  was  wonderfully 
quiet.  The  shout  of  a  child  or  the  peaceful  crow  of  a 
cock  was  the  loudest  sound  you  heard.  Once  a  gentle- 
man from  London  town  came  down  to  spend  a  week 
at  the  parsonage.  Towards  evening  on  the  very  first 
day  he  grew  restless  and  complained  of  the  abnormal 
stillness.  "I  like  a  quiet  place  well  enough,"  he 
exclaimed,  "but  this  tingling  silence  I  can't  standi" 
And  stand  it  he  wouldn't  and  didn't,  for  on  the  very 
next  morning  he  took  himself  off.  Many  years  had 
gone  by,  but  the  vicar  could  not  forget  the  Londoner 
who  had  come  down  to  invent  a  new  way  of  describ- 
ing the  Coombe  silence.  His  tingling  phrase  was  a 
joy  for  ever. 

He  took  me  to  the  church — one  of  the  tiniest 
churches  in  the  country,  just  the  right  size  for  a 
church  in  a  tiny  village  and  assured  me  that  he  had 
never  once  locked  the  door  in  his  fifty  years — day 

113 


Afoot  In  England 

and  night  it  was  open  to  any  one  to  enter.  It  was  a 
refuge  and  shelter  from  the  storm  and  the  tempest, 
and  many  a  poor  homeless  wretch  had  found  a  dry  place 
to  sleep  in  that  church  during  the  last  half  a  century. 
This  man's  feeling  of  pity  and  tenderness  for  the 
very  poor,  even  the  outcast  and  tramp,  was  a  passion. 
But  how  strange  all  this  would  sound  in  the  ears  of 
many  country  clergymen!  How  many  have  told  me 
when  I.  have  gone  to  the  parsonage  to  "borrow  the 
key"  that  it  had  been  found  necessary  to  keep  the 
church  door  locked,  to  prevent  damage,  thefts,  etc. 
"Have  you  never  had  anything  stolen?"  I  asked 
him.  Yes,  once,  a  great  many  years  ago,  the 
church  plate  had  been  taken  away  in  the  night.  But 
it  was  recovered:  the  thief  had  taken  it  to  the  top 
of  the  hill  and  thrown  it  into  the  dew-pond  there, 
no  doubt  intending  to  take  it  out  and  dispose  of  it 
at  some  more  convenient  time.  But  it  was  found, 
and  had  ever  since  then  been  kept  safe  at  the  vicar- 
age. Nothing  of  value  to  tempt  a  man  to  steal  was 
kept  in  the  church.  He  had  never  locked  it,  but 
once  in  his  fifty  years  it  had  been  locked  against  him 
by  the  churchwardens.  This  happened  in  the  days 
of  the  Joseph  Arch  agitation,  when  the  agricultural 
labourer's  condition  was  being  hotly  discussed  through- 
out the  country.  The  vicar's  heart  was  stirred,  for 
he  knew  better  than  most  how  hard  these  conditions 
were  at  Coombe  and  in  the  surrounding  parishes. 
He  took  up  the  subject  and  preached  on  it  in  his 
own  pulpit  in  a  way  that  offended  the  landowners 
and  alarmed  the  farmers  in  the  district.     The  church- 

114 


Rural  Rides 

wardens,  who  were  farmers,  then  locked  him  out  of 
his  church,  and  for  two  or  three  weeks  there  was  no 
public  worship  in  the  parish  of  Coombe.  Doubtless 
their  action  was  applauded  by  all  the  substantial  men 
in  the  neighbourhood;  the  others  who  lived  in  the 
cottages  and  were  unsubstantial  didn't  matter.  That 
storm  blew  over,  but  its  consequences  endured,  one 
being  that  the  inflammatory  parson  continued  to  be 
regarded  with  cold  disapproval  by  the  squires  and 
their  larger  tenants.  But  the  vicar  himself  was  un- 
repentant and  unashamed;  on  the  contrary,  he  gloried 
in  what  he  had  said  and  done,  and  was  proud  to  be 
able  to  relate  that  a  quarter  of  a  century  later  one 
of  the  two  men  who  had  taken  that  extreme  course 
said  to  him,  "We  locked  you  out  of  your  own  church, 
but  years  have  brought  me  to  another  mind  about 
that  question.  I  see  it  in  a  different  light  now  and 
know  that  you  were  right  and  we  were  wrong." 

Towards  evening  I  said  good-bye  to  my  kind  friend 
and  entertainer  and  continued  my  rural  ride.  From 
Coombe  it  is  five  miles  to  Hurstbourne  Tarrant, 
another  charming  "highland"  village,  and  the  road, 
sloping  down  the  entire  distance,  struck  me  as  one 
of  the  best  to  be  on  I  had  travelled  in  Hampshire, 
running  along  a  narrow  green  valley,  with  oak  and 
birch  and  bramble  and  thorn  in  their  late  autumn 
colours  growing  on  the  slopes  on  either  hand.  Prob- 
ably the  beauty  of  the  scene,  or  the  swift  succession 
of  beautiful  scenes,  with  the  low  sun  flaming  on 
the  "coloured  shades,"  served  to  keep  out  of  my 
mind  something  that  should  have  been  in  it.     At  all 

115 


Afoot  in  England 

events,  it  was  odd  that  I  had  more  than  once  promised 
myself  a  visit  to  the  very  village  I  was  approaching 
solely  because  William  Cobbett  had  described  and 
often  stayed  in  it,  and  now  no  thought  of  him  and 
his  ever-delightful  Rural  Rides  was  in  my  mind. 

Arrived  at  the  village  I  went  straight  to  the 
"George  and  Dragon,"  where  a  friend  had  assured 
me  I  could  always  find  good  accommodations.  But 
he  was  wrong:  there  was  no  room  for  me,  I 
was  told  by  a  weird-looking,  lean,  white-haired 
old  woman  with  whity-blue  unfriendly  eyes.  She 
appeared  to  resent  it  that  any  one  should  ask  for 
accommodation  at  such  a  time,  when  the  "shooting 
gents"  from  town  required  all  the  rooms  available. 
Well,  I  had  to  sleep  somewhere,  I  told  her:  couldn't 
she  direct  me  to  a  cottage  where  I  could  get  a  bed? 
No,  she  couldn't — it  is  always  so;  but  after  the  third 
time  of  asking  she  unfroze  so  far  as  to  say  that 
perhaps  they  would  take  me  in  at  a  cottage  close  by. 
So  I  went,  and  a  poor  kind  widow  who  lived  there 
with  a  son  consented  to  put  me  up.  She  made  a 
nice  fire  in  the  sitting-room,  and  after  warming 
myself  before  it,  while  watching  the  firelight  and 
shadows  playing  on  the  dim  walls  and  ceiling,  it  came 
to  me  that  I  was  not  in  a  cottage,  but  in  a  large  room 
with  an  oak  floor  and  wainscoting.  "Do  you  call 
this  a  cottage?"  I  said  to  the  woman  when  she  came 
in  with  tea.  "No,  I  have  it  as  a  cottage,  but  it  is 
an  old  farm-house  called  the  Rookery,"  she  returned. 
Then,  for  the  first  time,  I  remembered  Rural  Rides, 
"This  then  is  the  very  house  where  William  Cobbett 

ii6 


Rural  Rides 

used  to  stay  seventy  or  eighty  years  ago,"  I  said. 
She  had  never  heard  of  William  Cobbett;  she  only 
knew  that  at  that  date  it  had  been  tenanted  by  a 
farmer  named  Blount,  a  Roman  Catholic,  who  had 
some  curious  ideas  about  the  land. 

That  settled  it.  Blount  was  the  name  of  Cobbett's 
friend,  and  I  had  come  to  the  very  house  where 
Cobbett  was  accustomed  to  stay.  But  how  odd  that 
my  first  thought  of  the  man  should  have  come  to 
me  when  sitting  by  the  fire  where  Cobbett  himself 
had  sat  on  many  a  cold  evening!  And  this  was 
November  the  second,  the  very  day  eighty-odd  years 
ago  when  he  paid  his  first  visit  to  the  Rookery;  at 
all  events,  it  is  the  first  date  he  gives  in  Rural  Rides. 
And  he  too  had  been  delighted  with  the  place  and 
the  beauty  of  the  surrounding  country  with  the  trees 
in  their  late  autumn  colours.  Writing  on  November 
2nd,  1 82 1,  he  says:  "The  place  is  commonly  called 
Uphusband,  which  is,  I  think,  as  decent  a  corrup- 
tion of  names  as  one  could  wish  to  meet  with. 
However,  Uphusband  the  people  will  have  it,  and 
Uphusband  it  shall  be  for  mc."  That  is  indeed 
how  he  names  it  all  through  his  book,  after  explain- 
ing that  "husband"  is  a  corruption  of  Hurstbourne, 
and  that  there  are  two  Hurstbournes,  this  being  the 
upper  one. 

I  congratulated  myself  on  having  been  refused 
accommodation  at  the  "George  and  Dragon,"  and 
was  more  than  satisfied  to  pass  an  evening  without 
a  book,  sitting  there  alone  listening  to  an  imaginary 
conversation    between    those    two    curious    friends. 

117 


Afoot  in  England 

"Lord  Carnarvon,"  says  Cobbett,  "told  a  man,  in 
1820,  that  he  did  not  like  my  politics.  But  what  did 
he  mean  by  my  politics?  I  have  no  politics  but  such 
as  he  ought  to  like.  To  be  sure  I  labour  most 
assiduously  to  destroy  a  system  of  distress  and 
misery;  but  is  that  any  reason  why  a  Lord  should 
dislike  my  politics?  However,  dislike  them  or  like 
them,  to  them,  to  those  very  politics,  the  Lords 
themselves  must  come  at  last.'* 

Undoubtedly  he  talked  like  that,  just  as  he  wrote 
and  as  he  spoke  in  public,  his  style,  if  style  it  can  be 
called,  being  the  most  simple,  direct,  and  colloquial 
ever  written.  And  for  this  reason,  when  we  are 
aweary  of  the  style  of  the  stylist,  where  the  living 
breathing  body  becomes  of  less  consequence  than  its 
beautiful  clothing,  it  is  a  relief,  and  refreshment,  to 
turn  from  the  precious  and  delicate  expression,  the 
implicit  word,  sought  for  high  and  low  and  at  last 
found,  the  balance  of  every  sentence  and  perfect 
harmony  of  the  whole  work — to  go  from  it  to  the 
simple  vigorous  unadorned  talk  of  Rural  Rides.  A 
classic,  and  as  incongruous  among  classics  as  a  farmer 
in  his  smock-frock,  leggings,  and  stout  boots  would 
appear  in  a  company  of  fine  gentlemen  in  fashionable 
dress.  The  powerful  face  is  the  main  thing,  and  we 
think  little  of  the  frock  and  leggings  and  how  the 
hair  is  parted  or  if  parted  at  all.  Harsh  and  crabbed 
as  his  nature  no  doubt  was,  and  bitter  and  spiteful 
at  times,  his  conversation  must  yet  have  seemed  like 
a  perpetual  feast  of  honeyed  sweets  to  his  farmer 
friend.     Doubtless  there  was  plenty  of  variety  in  it: 

118 


Rural  Rides 

now  he  would  expatiate  on  the  beauty  of  the  green 
downs  over  which  he  had  just  ridden,  the  wooded 
slopes  in  their  glorious  autumn  colours,  and  the  rich 
villages  between;  this  would  remind  him  of  Malthus, 
that  blasphemous  monster  who  had  dared  to  say  that 
the  increase  in  food  production  did  not  keep  pace 
with  increase  of  population;  then  a  quieting  down, 
a  breathing-space,  all  about  the  turnip  crop,  the  price 
of  tegs  at  Wcyhill  Fair,  and  the  delights  of  hare 
coursing,  until  politics  would  come  round  again  and 
a  fresh  outburst  from  the  glorious  demagogue  in 
his  tantrums. 

At  eight  o'clock  Cobbett  would  say  good  night  and 
go  to  bed,  and  early  next  morning  write  down  what 
he  had  said  to  his  friend,  or  some  of  it,  and  send  it  off 
to  be  printed  in  his  paper.  That,  I  take  it,  is  how 
Rural  Rides  was  written,  and  that  is  why  it  seems  so 
fresh  to  us  to  this  day,  and  that  to  take  it  up  after 
other  books  is  like  going  out  from  a  luxurious 
room  full  of  fine  company  into  the  open  air  to  feel 
the  wind  and  rain  on  one's  face  and  see  the  green 
grass. 

But  I  very  much  regret  that  Cobbett  tells  us  nothing 
of  his  farmer  friend.  Blount,  I  imagine,  must  have 
been  a  man  of  a  very  fine  character  to  have  won  the 
heart  and  influenced  such  a  person.  Cobbett  never 
loses  an  opportunity  of  vilifying  the  parsons  and 
expressing  his  hatred  of  the  Established  Church;  and 
yet,  albeit  a  Protestant,  he  invariably  softens  down 
when  he  refers  to  the  Roman  Catholic  faith  and 
appears  quite  capable  of  seeing  the  good  that  is  in  it. 

119 


Afoot  in  England 

It  was  Blount,  I  think,  who  had  soothed  the  savage 
breast  of  the  man  in  this  matter.  The  only  thing  I 
could  hear  about  Blount  and  his  "queer  notions" 
regarding  the  land  was  his  idea  that  the  soil  could  be 
improved  by  taking  the  flints  out.  "The  soil  to  look 
upon,"  Cobbett  truly  says,  "appears  to  be  more  than 
half  flint,  but  is  a  very  good  quality."  Blount  thought 
to  make  it  better,  and  for  many  years  employed  all  the 
aged  poor  villagers  and  the  children  in  picking  the 
flints  from  the  ploughed  land  and  gathering  them  in 
vast  heaps.  It  does  not  appear  that  he  made  his  land 
more  productive,  but  his  hobby  was  a  good  one  for  the 
poor  of  the  village;  the  stones,  too,  proved  useful  after- 
wards to  the  road-makers,  who  have  been  using  them 
these  many  years.  A  few  heaps  almost  clothed  over 
with  a  turf  which  had  formed  on  them  in  the  course 
of  eighty  years  were  still  to  be  seen  on  the  land  when 
I  was  there. 

The  following  day  I  took  no  ride.  The  weather 
was  so  beautiful  it  seemed  better  to  spend  the  time 
sitting  or  basking  in  the  warmth  and  brightness  or 
strolling  about.  At  all  events,  it  was  a  perfect  day  at 
Hurstbourne  Tarrant,  though  not  everywhere,  for  on 
that  third  of  November  the  greatest  portion  of  South- 
ern England  was  drowned  in  a  cold  dense  white  fog. 
In  London  it  was  dark,  I  heard.  Early  in  the  morning 
I  listened  to  a  cirl-bunting  singing  merrily  from  a 
bush  close  to  the  George  and  Dragon  Inn.  This 
charming  bird  is  quite  common  in  the  neighbourhood, 
although,  as  elsewhere  in  England,  the  natives  know 
it  not  by  its  book  name,  nor  by  any  other,  and  do  not 

120 


Rural  Rides 

distinguish  it  from  its  less  engaging  cousin,  the  yel- 
low-hammer. 

After  breakfast  I  strolled  about  the  common  and  in 
Doles  Wood,  on  the  down  above  the  village,  listening 
to  the  birds,  and  on  my  way  back  encountered  a  tramp 
whose  singular  appearance  produced  a  deep  impression 
on  my  mind.  We  have  heard  of  a  work  by  some 
modest  pressman  entitled  Monarchs  I  have  met,  and  I 
sometimes  think  that  one  equally  interesting  might  be 
written  on  Tramps  I  have  met.  As  I  have  neither  time 
nor  stomach  for  the  task,  I  will  make  a  present  of  the 
title  to  any  one  of  my  fellow-travellers,  curious  in 
tramps,  who  cares  to  use  it.  This  makes  two  good 
titles  I  have  given  away  in  this  chapter  with  a  bor- 
rowed one. 

But  if  it  had  been  possible  for  me  to  write  such  a 
book,  a  prominent  place  would  be  given  in  it  to  the 
one  tramp  I  have  met  who  could  be  accurately 
described  as  gorgeous.  I  did  not  cultivate  his  acquaint- 
ance; chance  threw  us  together  and  we  separated 
after  exchanging  a  few  polite  commonplaces,  but  his 
big  flamboyant  image  remains  vividly  impressed  on 
my  mind. 

At  noon,  in  the  brilliant  sunshine,  as  I  came 
loiteringly  down  the  long  slope  from  Doles  Wood  to 
the  village,  he  overtook  me.  He  was  a  huge  man, 
over  six  feet  high,  nobly  built,  suggesting  a  Scandi- 
navian origin,  with  a  broad  blond  face,  good  features, 
and  prominent  blue  eyes,  and  his  hair  was  curly  and 
shone  like  gold  in  the  sunlight.  Had  he  been  a  mere 
labourer  in  a  workman's  rough  clay-stained  clothes, 

121 


Afoot  in  England 

one  would  have  stood  still  to  look  at  and  admire  him, 
and  say  perhaps  what  a  magnificent  warrior  he  would 
have  looked  with  sword  and  spear  and  plumed  helmet, 
mounted  on  a  big  horse !  But  alas !  he  had  the  stamp 
of  the  irreclaimable  blackguard  on  his  face;  and  that 
same  handsome  face  was  just  then  disfigured  with 
several  bruises  in  three  colours — blue,  black,  and  red. 
Doubtless  he  had  been  in  a  drunken  brawl  on  the 
previous  evening  and  had  perhaps  been  thrown  out  of 
some  low  public-house  and  properly  punished. 

In  his  dress  he  was  as  remarkable  as  in  his  figure. 
Bright  blue  trousers  much  too  small  for  his  stout  legs, 
once  the  property,  no  doubt,  of  some  sporting  young 
gent  of  loud  tastes  in  colours;  a  spotted  fancy  waist- 
coat, not  long  enough  to  meet  the  trousers,  a  dirty 
scarlet  tie,  long  black  frock-coat,  shiny  in  places,  and 
a  small  dirty  grey  cap  which  only  covered  the  top- 
most part  of  his  head  of  golden  hair. 

Walking  by  the  hedge-side  he  picked  and  devoured 
the  late  blackberries,  which  were  still  abundant.  It 
was  a  beautiful  unkept  hedge  with  scarlet  and  purple 
fruit  among  the  many-coloured  fading  leaves  and 
silver-grey  down  of  old-man's-beard. 

I  too  picked  and  ate  a  few  berries  and  made  the 
remark  that  it  was  late  to  eat  such  fruit  in  November. 
The  Devil  in  these  parts,  I  told  him,  flies  abroad  in 
October  to  spit  on  the  bramble  bushes  and  spoil  the 
fruit.  It  was  even  worse  further  north,  in  Norfolk 
and  Suffolk,  where  they  say  the  Devil  goes  out  at 
Michaelmas  and  shakes  his  verminous  trousers  over 
the  bushes. 

122 


Rural  Rides 

He  didn't  smile;  he  went  on  sternly  eating  black- 
berries, and  then  remarked  in  a  bitter  tone,  "That 
Devil  they  talk  about  must  have  a  busy  time,  to  go 
messing  about  blackberry  bushes  In  addition  to  all 
his  other  important  work." 

I  was  silent,  and  presently,  after  swallowing  a  few 
more  berries,  he  resumed  in  the  same  tone:  "Very 
fine,  very  beautiful  all  this" — waving  his  hand  to 
indicate  the  hedge,  its'  rich  tangle  of  purple-red  stems 
and  coloured  leaves,  and  scarlet  fruit  and  silvery  old- 
man's-beard.  "An  artist  enjoys  seeing  this  sort  of 
thing,  and  it's  nice  for  all  those  who  go  about  just  for 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  things.  But  when  it  comes  to 
a  man  tramping  twenty  or  thirty  miles  a  day  on  an 
empty  belly,  looking  for  work  which  he  can't  find,  he 
doesn't  see  It  quite  in  the  same  way." 

"True,"   I  returned,  with  indifference. 

But  he  was  not  to  be  put  off  by  my  sudden  cold- 
ness, and  he  proceeded  to  inform  me  that  he  had  just 
returned  from  Salisbury  Plain,  that  it  had  been  noised 
abroad  that  ten  thousand  men  were  wanted  by  the 
War  Office  to  work  In  forming  new  camps.  On 
arrival  he  found  it  was  not  so — it  was  all  a  lie — men 
were  not  wanted — and  he  was  now  on  his  way  to 
Andover,  penniless  and  hungry  and 

By  the  time  he  had  got  to  that  part  of  his  story  we 
were  some  distance  apart,  as  I  had  remained  standing 
still  while  he,  thinking  me  still  close  behind,  had 
gone  on  picking  blackberries  and  talking.  He  was 
soon  out  of  sight. 

At  noon  the  following  day,  the  weather  still  being 

123 


Afoot  in  England 

bright  and  genial,  I  went  to  Crux  Easton,  a  hill- 
top village  consisting  of  some  low  farm  buildings, 
cottages,  and  a  church  not  much  bigger  than  a 
cottage.  A  great  house  probably  once  existed  here, 
as  the  hill  has  a  noble  avenue  of  limes,  which  it  wears 
like  a  comb  or  crest.  On  the  lower  slope  of  the 
hill,  the  old  unkept  hedges  were  richer  in  colour 
than  in  most  places,  owing  to  the  abundance  of  the 
spindle-wood  tree,  laden  with  its  loose  clusters  of 
flame-bright,  purple-pink  and  orange  berries. 

Here  I  saw  a  pretty  thing:  a  cock  cirl-bunting, 
his  yellow  breast  towards  me,  sitting  quietly  on  a  large 
bush  of  these  same  brilliant  berries,  set  amidst  a 
mass  of  splendidly  coloured  hazel  leaves,  mixed 
with  bramble  and  tangled  with  ivy  and  silver-grey 
traveller's-joy.  An  artist's  heart  would  have  leaped 
with  joy  at  the  sight,  but  all  his  skill  and  oriental 
colours  would  have  made  nothing  of  it,  for  all  visible 
nature  was  part  of  the  picture,  the  wide  wooded  earth 
and  the  blue  sky  beyond  and  above  the  bird,  and  the 
sunshine  that  glorified  all. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  hedge  there  were  groups 
of  fine  old  beech  trees  and,  strange  to  see,  just 
beyond  the  green  slope  and  coloured  trees,  was  the 
great  whiteness  of  the  fog  which  had  advanced  thus 
far  and  now  appeared  motionless.  I  went  down  and 
walked  by  the  side  of  the  bank  of  mist,  feeling  its 
clammy  coldness  on  one  cheek  while  the  other  was 
fanned  by  the  warm  bright  air.  Seen  at  a  distance 
of  a  couple  of  hundred  yards,  the  appearance  was 
that  of  a  beautiful  pearly-white  cloud  resting  upon  the 

124 


Rural  Rides 

earth.  Many  fogs  had  I  seen,  but  never  one  like 
this,  so  substantial-looking,  so  sharply  defined,  stand- 
ing like  a  vast  white  wall  or  flat-topped  hill  at  the 
foot  of  the  green  sunlit  slope !  I  had  the  fancy  that 
if  I  had  been  an  artist  in  sculpture,  and  rapid  modeller, 
by  using  the  edge  of  my  hand  as  a  knife  I  could 
have  roughly  carved  out  a  human  figure,  then  drawing 
it  gently  out  of  the  mass  proceeded  to  press  and 
work  it  to  a  better  shape,  the  shape,  let  us  say,  of  a 
beautiful  woman.  Then,  if  it  were  done  excellently, 
and  some  man-mocking  deity,  or  power  of  the  air, 
happened  to  be  looking  on,  he  would  breathe  life 
and  intelligence  into  it,  and  send  it,  or  her,  abroad  to 
mix  with  human  kind  and  complicate  their  affairs. 
For  she  would  seem  a  woman  and  would  be  like  some 
women  we  have  known,  beautiful  with  blue  flower- 
like eyes,  pale  gold  or  honey-coloured  hair;  very 
white  of  skin,  Leightonian,  almost  diaphanous,  so 
delicate  as  to  make  all  other  skins  appear  coarse  and 
made  of  clay.  And  with  her  beauty  and  a  mysterious 
sweetness  not  of  the  heart,  since  no  heart  there  would 
be  in  that  mist-cold  body,  she  would  draw  all  hearts, 
ever  inspiring,  but  never  satisfying  passion,  her  beauty 
and  alluring  smiles  being  but  the  brightness  of  a  cloud 
on  which  the  sun  is  shining. 

Birds,  driven  by  the  fog  to  that  sunlit  spot,  were 
all  about  me  in  incredible  numbers.  Rooks  and 
daws  were  congregating  on  the  bushes,  where  their 
black  figures  served  to  intensify  the  red-gold  tints  of 
the  foliage.  At  intervals  the  entire  vast  cawing 
multitude   simultaneously   rose   up   with   a   sound   as 

125 


Afoot  in  England 

or  many  waters,  and  appeared  now  at  last  about  to 
mount  up  into  the  blue  heavens,  to  float  circling 
there  far  above  the  world  as  they  are  accustomed  to 
do  on  warm  windless  days  in  autumn.  But  in  a 
little  while  their  brave  note  would  change  to  one  of 
trouble;  the  sight  of  that  immeasurable  whiteness 
covering  so  much  of  the  earth  would  scare  them,  and 
led  by  hundreds  of  clamouring  daws  they  would  come 
down  again  to  settle  once  more  in  black  masses  on 
the  shining  yellow  trees. 

Close  by  a  ploughed  field  of  about  forty  acres  was 
the  camping-ground  of  an  army  of  peewits;  they 
were  travellers  from  the  north  perhaps,  and  were 
quietly  resting,  sprinkled  over  the  whole  area.  More 
abundant  were  the  small  birds  in  mixed  flocks  or 
hordes — finches,  buntings,  and  larks  in  thousands  on 
thousands,  with  a  sprinkling  of  pipits  and  pied  and 
grey  wagtails,  all  busily  feeding  on  the  stubble  and 
fresh  ploughed  land.  Thickly  and  evenly  distributed, 
they  appeared  to  the  vision  ranging  over  the  brown 
level  expanse  as  minute  animated  and  variously 
coloured  clods — ^black  and  brown  and  grey  and  yellow 
and  olive-green. 

It  was  a  rare  pleasure  to  be  in  this  company,  to 
revel  in  their  astonishing  numbers,  to  feast  my  soul 
on  them  as  it  were — little  birds  in  such  multitudes 
that  ten  thousand  Frenchmen  and  Italians  might 
have  gorged  to  repletion  on  their  small  succulent 
bodies — and  to  reflect  that  they  were  safe  from  per- 
secution so  long  as  they  remained  here  in  England. 
This  is  something  for  an  Englishman  to  be  proud  of. 

126 


Rural  Rides 

After  spending  two  hours  at  Crux  Easton,  with 
that  dense  immovable  fog  close  by,  I  at  length  took 
the  plunge  to  get  to  Highclere.  What  a  change ! 
I  was  at  once  where  all  form  and  colour  and  melody 
had  been  blotted  out.  My  clothes  were  hoary  with 
clinging  mist,  my  fingers  numb  with  cold,  and 
Highclere,  its  scattered  cottages  appearing  like  dim 
smudges  through  the  whiteness,  was  the  dreariest 
village  on  earth.  I  fled  on  to  Newbury  in  quest  of 
warmth  and  light,  and  found  it  indoors,  but  the  town 
was  deep  in  the  fog. 

The  next  day  I  ventured  out  again  to  look  for  the 
sun,  and  found  It  not,  but  my  ramble  was  not  with- 
out its  reward.  In  a  pine  wood  three  miles  from  the 
town  I  stood  awhile  to  listen  to  the  sound  as  of 
copious  rain  of  the  moisture  dropping  from  the 
trees,  when  a  sudden  tempest  of  loud,  sharp  metallic 
notes — a  sound  dear  to  the  ornithologist's  ears — 
made  me  jump;  and  down  Into  the  very  tree  before 
which  I  was  standing  dropped  a  flock  of  about  twenty 
crossbills.  So  excited  and  noisy  when  coming  down, 
the  instant  they  touched  the  tree  they  became  perfectly 
silent  and  motionless.  Seven  of  their  number  had 
settled  on  the  outside  shoots,  and  sat  there  within 
forty  feet  of  me,  looking  like  painted  wooden  images 
of  small  green  and  greenish-yellow  parrots;  for  a 
space  of  fifteen  minutes  not  the  slightest  movement 
did  they  make,  and  at  length,  before  going,  I  waved 
my  arms  about  and  shouted  to  frighten  them,  and 
still  they  refused  to  stir. 

Next  morning  that  memorable  fog  lifted,  to  Eng- 

127 


Afoot  in  England 

land's  joy,  and  quitting  my  refuge  I  went  out  once 
more  into  the  region  of  high  sheep-walks,  adorned 
with  beechen  woods  and  traveller's-joy  in  the  hedges, 
rambling  by  Highclere,  Burghclere,  and  Kingsclere. 
The  last — Hampshire's  little  Cuzco — is  a  small  and 
village-like  old  red  brick  town,  unapproached  by  a 
railroad  and  unimproved,  therefore  still  beautiful,  as 
were  all  places  in  other,  better,  less  civiHzed  days. 
Here  in  the  late  afternoon  a  chilly  grey  haze  crept 
over  the  country  and  set  me  wishing  for  a  fireside 
and  the  sound  of  friendly  voices,  and  I  turned  my 
face  towards  beloved  Silchester.  Lieaving  the  hills 
behind  me  I  got  away  from  the  haze  and  went  my 
devious  way  by  serpentine  roads  through  a  beautiful, 
wooded,  undulating  country.  And  I  wish  that  for  a 
hundred,  nay,  for  a  thousand  years  to  come,  I  could 
on  each  recurring  November  have  such  an  afternoon 
ride,  with  that  autumnal  glory  in  the  trees.  Some- 
times, seeing  the  road  before  me  carpeted  with  pure 
yellow,  I  said  to  myself,  now  I  am  coming  to  elms; 
but  when  the  road  shone  red  and  russet-gold  before 
me  I  knew  it  was  overhung  by  beeches.  But  the 
oak  is  the  common  tree  in  this*  place,  and  from  every 
high  point  on  the  road  I  saw  far  before  me  and 
on  either  hand  the  woods  and  copses  all  a  tawny 
yellow  gold — the  hue  of  the  dying  oak  leaf.  The 
tall  larches  were  lemon-yellow,  and  when  growing 
among  tall  pines  produced  a  singular  effect.  Best 
of  all  was  it  where  beeches  grew  among  the  firs,  and 
the  low  sun  on  my  left  hand  shining  through  the 
wood  gave   the  coloured   translucent  leaves  an  un- 

128 


Rural  Rides 

imaginable  splendour.  This  was  the  very  effect 
which  men,  inspired  by  a  sacred  passion,  had  sought 
to  reproduce  in  their  noblest  work — the  Gothic 
cathedral  and  church,  its  dim  interior  lit  by  many- 
coloured  stained  glass.  The  only  choristers  in  these 
natural  fanes  were  the  robins  and  the  small  lyrical 
wren;  but  on  passing  through  the  rustic  village  of 
Wolverton  I  stopped  for  a  couple  of  minutes  to 
listen  to  the  lively  strains  of  a  cirl-bunting  among 
some  farm  buildings. 

Then  on  to  Silchester,  Its  furzy  common  and 
scattered  village  and  the  vast  ruinous  walls,  over- 
grown with  ivy,  bramble,  and  thorn,  of  ancient 
Roman  Calleva.  Inside  the  walls,  at  one  spot,  a 
dozen  men  were  still  at  work  in  the  fading  light; 
they  were  just  finishing — shovelling  earth  in  to 
obliterate  all  that  had  been  opened  out  during  the 
year.  The  old  flint  foundations  that  had  been  re- 
vealed; the  houses  with  porches  and  corridors  and 
courtyards  and  pillared  hypocausts;  the  winter  room 
with  its  wide  beautiful  floor — red  and  black  and  white 
and  grey  and  yellow,  with  geometric  pattern  and 
twist  and  scroll  and  flower  and  leaf  and  quaint  figures 
of  man  and  beast  and  bird — all  to  be  covered  up  with 
earth  so  that  the  plough  may  be  driven  over  it  again, 
and  the  wheat  grow  and  ripen  again  as  It  has  grown 
and  ripened  there  above  the  dead  city  for  so  many 
centuries.  The  very  earth  within  those  walls  had 
a  reddish  cast  owing  to  the  Innumerable  fragments 
of  red  tile  and  tesserae  mixed  with  it.  Larks  and 
finches  were  busily  searching  for  seeds  in  the  reddlsh- 

129 


Afoot  in  England 

brown  soil.  They  would  soon  be  gone  to  their 
roosting-places  and  the  tired  men  to  their  cottages, 
and  the  white  owl  coming  from  his  hiding-place  in 
the  walls  would  have  old  Silchester  to  himself,  as  he 
has  had  it  since  the  cries  and  moans  of  the  conquered 
died  into  silence  so  long  ago. 


130 


Chapter  Ten:     The  Last  of  His 
Name 

I  came  by  chance  to  the  village — Norton,  we  will 
call  it,  just  to  call  it  something,  but  the  county 
in  which  it  is  situated  need  not  be  named.  It 
happened  that  about  noon  that  day  I  planned  to  pass 
the  night  at  a  village  where,  as  I  was  informed  at  a 
small  country  town  I  had  rested  in,  there  was  a  nice 
inn — *'The  Fox  and  Grapes'' — to  put  up  at,  but  when 
I  arrived,  tired  and  hungry,  I  was  told  that  I  could 
not  have  a  bed  and  that  the  only  thing  to  do  was  to  try 
Norton,  which  also  boasted  an  inn.  It  was  hard  to 
have  to  turn  some  two  or  three  miles  out  of  my  road 
at  that  late  hour  on  a  chance  of  a  shelter  for  the 
night,  but  there  was  nothing  else  to  do,  so  on  to 
Norton  I  went  with  heavy  steps,  and  arrived  a  little 
after  sunset,  more  tired  and  hungry  than  ever,  only 
to  be  told  at  the  inn  that  they  had  no  accommodation 
for  me,  that  their  one  spare  room  had  been  engaged! 
"What  am  I  to  do,  then?"  I  demanded  of  the  land- 
lord. "Beyond  this  village  I  cannot  go  to-night — 
do  you  want  me  to  go  out  and  sleep  under  a  hedge  ?" 
He  called  his  spouse,  and  after  some  conversation 
they  said  the  village  baker  might  be  able  to  put  me 
up,  as  he  had  a  spare  bedroom  in  his  house.  So 
to  the  baker's  I  went,  and  found  it  a  queer,  ram- 
shackle old  place,  standing  a  little  back  from  the 
village  street  in  a  garden  and  green  plot  with  a  few 

131 


Afoot  in  England 

fruit  trees  growing  on  it.  To  my  knock  the  baker 
himself  came  out — a  mild-looking,  flabby-faced  man, 
with  his  mouth  full,  in  a  very  loose  suit  of  pyjama- 
like  garments  of  a  bluish  floury  colour.  I  told  him 
my  story,  and  he  listened,  swallowing  his  mouthful, 
then  cast  his  eyes  down  and  rubbed  his  chin,  which 
had  a  small  tuft  of  hairs  growing  on  it,  and  finally 
said,  *'I  don't  know.  I  must  ask  my  wife.  But 
come  in  and  have  a  cup  of  tea — we're  just  having  a 
cup  ourselves,  and  perhaps  you'd  like  one." 

I  could  have  told  him  that  'I  should  like  a  dozen 
cups  and  a  great  many  slices  of  bread-and-butter, 
if  there  was  nothing  else  more  substantial  to  be 
had.  However,  I  only  said,  "Thank  you,"  and 
followed  him  in  to  where  his  wife,  a  nice4ooking 
woman,  with  black  hair  and  olive  face,  was  seated 
behind  the  teapot.  Imagine  my  surprise  when  I 
found  that  besides  tea  there  was  a  big  hot  repast 
on  the  table — a  ham,  a  roast  fowl,  potatoes  and  cab- 
bage, a  rice  pudding,  a  dish  of  stewed  fruit,  bread- 
and-butter,  and  other  things ! 

"You  call  this  a  cup  of  tea !"  I  exclaimed  de- 
lightedly. The  woman  laughed,  and  he  explained  in 
an  apologetic  way  that  he  had  formerly  suffered 
grievously  from  indigestion,  so  that  for  many  years 
his  life  was  a  burden  to  him,  until  he  discovered  that 
if  he  took  one  big  meal  a  day,  after  the  work  was 
over,  he  could  keep  perfectly  well. 

I  was  never  hungrier  than  on  this  evening,  and 
never,  I  think,  ate  a  bigger  or  more  enjoyable  meal; 
nor  have  I  ever  ceased  to  remember  those  two  with 

132 


The  Last  of  His  Name 

gratitude,  and  if  I  were  to  tell  here  what  they  told 
me — the  history  of  their  two  lives — I  think  it  would 
be  a  more  interesting  story  than  the  one  I  am  about 
to  relate.  I  stayed  a  whole  week  in  their  hospitable 
house;  a  week  which  passed  only  too  quickly,  for 
never  had  I  been  in  a  sweeter  haunt  of  peace  than 
this  village  in  a  quiet,  green  country  remote  from 
towns  and  stations.  It  was  a  small  rustic  place,  a  few 
old  houses  and  thatched  cottages,  and  the  ancient 
church  with  square  Norman  tower  hard  to  see  amid 
the  immense  old  oaks  and  elms  that  grew  all  about  it. 
At  the  end  of  the  village  were  the  park  gates,  and 
the  park,  a  solitary,  green  place  with  noble  trees,  was 
my  favourite  haunt;  for  there  was  no  one  to  forbid 
me,  the  squire  being  dead,  the  old  red  Elizabethan 
house  empty,  with  only  a  caretaker  in  the  gardener's 
lodge  to  mind  it,  and  the  estate  for  sale.  Three  years 
it  had  been  in  that  condition,  but  nobody  seemed  to 
want  it;  occasionally  some  important  person  came 
rushing  down  in  a  motor-car,  but  after  running  over 
the  house  he  would  come  out  and,  remarking  that  it 
was  a  "rummy  old  place,"  remount  his  car  and  vanish 
in  a  cloud  of  dust  to  be  seen  no  more. 

The  dead  owner,  I  found,  was  much  in  the  village 
mind;  and  no  wonder,  since  Norton  had  never  been 
without  a  squire  until  he  passed  away,  leaving  no  one 
to  succeed  him.  It  was  as  if  some  ancient  landmark, 
or  an  immemorial  oak  tree  on  the  green  in  whose 
shade  the  villagers  had  been  accustomed  to  sit  for 
many  generations,  had  been  removed.  There  was  a 
sense  of  something  wanting — something  gone  out  of 

133 


Afoot  in  England 

their  lives.  Moreover,  he  had  been  a  man  of  a 
remarkable  character,  and  though  they  never  loved 
him  they  yet  reverenced  his  memory. 

So  much  was  he  in  their  minds  that  I  could  not  be 
in  the  village  and  not  hear  the  story  of  his  life — the 
story  which,  I  said,  interested  me  less  than  that  of 
the  good  baker  and  his  wife.  On  his  father's  death 
at  a  very  advanced  age  he  came,  a  comparative 
stranger,  to  Norton,  the  first  half  of  his  life  having 
been  spent  abroad.  He  was  then  a  middle-aged  man, 
unmarried,  and  a  bachelor  he  remained  to  the  end. 
He  was  of  a  reticent  disposition  and  was  said  to  be 
proud;  formal,  almost  cold,  in  manner;  furthermore, 
he  did  not  share  his  neighbours'  love  of  sport  of  any 
description,  nor  did  he  care  for  society,  and  because 
of  all  this  he  was  regarded  as  peculiar,  not  to  say 
eccentric.  But  he  was  deeply  interested  in  agricul- 
ture, especially  in  cattle  and  their  improvement,  and 
that  object  grew  to  be  his  master  passion.  It  was  a 
period  of  great  depression,  and  as  his  farms  fell 
vacant  he  took  them  into  his  own  hands,  increased 
his  stock  and  built  model  cowhouses,  and  came  at 
last  to  be  known  throughout  his  own  country,  and 
eventually  everywhere,  as  one  of  the  biggest  cattle- 
breeders  in  England.  But  he  was  famous  in  a 
peculiar  way.  Wise  breeders  and  buyers  shook  their 
heads  and  even  tauched  their  foreheads  significantly, 
and  predicted  that  the  squire  of  Norton  would  finish 
by  ruining  himself.  They  were  right,  he  ruined  him- 
self; not  that  he  was  mentally  weaker  than  those  who 
watched  and  cunningly  exploited  him;  he  was  ruined 


The  Last  of  His  Name 

because  his  object  was  a  higher  one  than  theirs.  He 
saw  clearly  that  the  prize  system  is  a  vicious  one  and 
that  better  results  may  be  obtained  without  it.  He 
proved  this  at  a  heavy  cost  by  breeding  better  beasts 
than  his  rivals,  who  were  all  exhibitors  and  prize- 
winners, and  who  by  this  means  got  their  advertise- 
ments and  secured  the  highest  prices,  while  he,  who 
disdained  prizes  and  looked  with  disgust  at  the  over- 
fed and  polished  animals  at  shows,  got  no  advertise- 
ments and  was  compelled  to  sell  at  unremunerative 
prices.  The  buyers,  it  may  be  mentioned,  were  al- 
ways the  breeders  for  shows,  and  they  made  a  splendid 
profit  out  of  it. 

He  carried  on  the  fight  for  a  good  many  years, 
becoming  more  and  more  involved,  until  his  creditors 
took  possession  of  the  estate,  sold  off  the  stock,  let 
the  farms,  and  succeeded  in  finding  a  tenant  for  the 
furnished  house.  He  went  to  a  cottage  in  the  village 
and  there  passed  his  remaining  years.  To  the  world 
he  appeared  unmoved  by  his  reverses.  The  change 
from  mansion  and  park  to  a  small  thatched  cottage, 
with  a  labourer's  wife  for  attendant,  made  no  change 
in  the  man,  nor  did  he  resign  his  seat  on  the  Bench 
of  Magistrates  or  any  other  unpaid  office  he  held. 
To  the  last  he  was  what  he  had  always  been,  formal 
and  ceremonious,  more  gracious  to  those  beneath  him 
than  to  equals;  strict  in  the  performance  of  his 
duties,  living  with  extreme  frugality  and  giving  freely 
to  those  in  want,  and  very  regular  in  his  attendance 
at  church,  where  he  would  sit  facing  the  tombs  and 
memorials  of  his  ancestors,  among  the  people  but  not 

135 


Afoot  in  England 

of  them — a  man  alone  and  apart,  respected  by  all  but 
loved  by  none. 

Finally  he  died  and  was  buried  with  the  others, 
and  one  more  memorial  with  the  old  name,  which  he 
bore  last  was  placed  on  the  wall.  That  was  the  story 
as  it  was  told  me,  and  as  it  was  all  about  a  man  who 
was  without  charm  and  had  no  love  interest  it  did 
not  greatly  interest  me,  and  I  soon  dismissed  it  from 
my  thoughts.  Then  one  day  coming  through  a  grove 
in  the  park  and  finding  myself  standing  before  the 
ancient,  empty,  desolate  house — for  on  the  squire's 
death  everything  had  been  sold  and  taken  away — ^I 
remembered  that  the  caretaker  had  begged  me  to  let 
him  show  me  over  the  place.  I  had  not  felt  inclined 
to  gratify  him,  as  I  had  found  him  a  young  man 
of  a  too  active  mind  whose  only  desire  was  to  capture 
some  person  to  talk  to  and  unfold  his  original  ideas 
and  schemes,  but  now  having  come  to  the  house  I 
thought  I  would  suffer  him,  and  soon  found  him  at 
work  in  the  vast  old  walled  garden.  He  joyfully 
threw  down  his  spade  and  let  mc  in  and  then  up  to 
the  top  floor,  determined  that  I  should  see  every- 
thing. By  the  time  we  got  down  to  the  ground  floor 
I  was  pretty  tired  of  empty  rooms,  oak  panelled, 
and  passages  and  oak  staircases,  and  of  talk,  and  im- 
patient to  get  away.  But  no,  I  had  not  seen  the 
housekeeper's  room — I  must  see  that! — and  so  into 
another  great  vacant  room  I  was  dragged,  and  to  keep 
me  as  long  as  possible  in  that  last  room  he  began 
unlocking  and  flinging  open  all  the  old  oak  cupboards 
and  presses.     Glancing  round  at  the  long  array  of 

136 


The  Last  of  His  Name 

empty  shelves,  I  noticed  a  small  brown-paper  parcel, 
thick  with  dust,  in  a  corner,  and  as  it  was  the  only 
movable  thing  I  had  seen  in  that  vacant  house  I 
asked  him  what  the  parcel  contained.  Books,  he 
replied — they  had  been  left  as  of  no  value  when 
the  house  was  cleared  of  furniture.  As  I  wished  to 
see  the  books  he  undid  the  parcel;  it  contained  forty 
copies  of  a  small  quarto-shaped  book  of  sonnets,  with 
the  late  squire's  name  as  author  on  the  title  page. 
I  read  a  sonnet,  and  told  him  I  should  like  to  read 
them  all.  "You  can  have  a  copy,  of  course,"  he 
exclaimed.  ''Put  it  in  your  pocket  and  keep  it." 
When  I  asked  him  if  he  had  any  right  to  give  one 
away  he  laughed  and  said  that  if  any  one  had  thought 
the  whole  parcel  worth  twopence  it  would  not  have 
been  left  behind.  He  was  quite  right;  a  cracked 
dinner-plate  or  a  saucepan  with  a  hole  in  it  or  an 
earthenware  teapot  with  a  broken  spout  would  not 
have  been  left,  but  the  line  was  drawn  at  a  book 
of  sonnets  by  the  late  squire.  Nobody  wanted  it,  and 
so  without  more  qualms  I  put  it  in  my  pocket,  and 
have  it  before  me  now,  opened  at  page  63,  on  which 
appears,  without  a  headline,  the  sonnet  I  first  read, 
and  which  I  quote : — 

How  beautiful  are  birds,  of  God's  sweet  air 
Free  denizens;  no  ugly  earthly  spot 
Their  boundless  happiness  doth  seem  to  blot. 

The  swallow,  swiftly  flying  here  and  there, 

Can  it  be  true  that  dreary  household  care 
Doth  goad  her  to  Incessant  flight?     If  not 
How  can  it  be  that  she  doth  cast  her  lot 

137 


Afoot  in  England 

Now  thele,  now  here,   pursuing  summer  everywhere? 

I  sadly  fear  that  shallow,  tiny  brain 
Is  not  exempt  from  anxious  cares  and  fears, 

That  mingled  heritage  of  joy  and  pain 
That  for  some  reason  everywhere  appears; 

And  yet  those  birds,  how  beautiful  they  are! 

Sure  beauty  is  to  happiness  no  bar. 

This  has  a  fault  that  doth  offend  the  reader  of 
modern  verse,  and  there  are  many  of  the  eighty 
sonnets  In  the  book  which  do  not  equal  It  in  merit. 
He  was  manifestly  an  amateur;  he  sometimes  writes 
with  labour,  and  he  not  Infrequently  ends  with  the 
unpardonable  weak  line.  Nevertheless  he  had  rightly 
chosen  this  difficult  form  In  which  to  express  his  Inner 
self.  It  suited  his  grave,  concentrated  thought,  and 
each  little  Imperfect  poem  of  fourteen  lines  gives  us 
a  glimpse  Into  a  wise,  beneficent  mind.  He  had 
fought  his  fight  and  suffered  defeat,  and  had  then 
withdrawn  himself  silently  from  the  field  to  die. 
But  If  he  had  been  embittered  he  could  have  re- 
lieved himself  In  this  little  book.  There  Is  no  trace 
of  such  a  feeling.  He  only  asks.  In  one  sonnet,  where 
can  a  balm  be  found  for  the  heart  fretted  and  torn 
with  eternal  cares;  when  we  have  thought  and  striven 
for  some  great  and  good  purpose,  when  all  our  striv- 
ing has  ended  in  disaster?  His  plan,  he  concludes, 
is  to  go  out  In  the  quiet  night-time  and  look  at  the 
stars. 

Here  let  me  quote  two  more  sonnets  written  in 
contemplative  mood,  just  to  give  the  reader  a  fuller 

138 


The  Last  of  His  Name 

idea  not  of  the  verse,  as  verse,  but  of  the  spirit  in  the 
old  squire.     There  is  no  title  to  these  two: — 

I  like  a  fire  of  wood ;  there  is  a  kind 
Of  artless  poetry  in  all  its  ways: 

When  first  'tis  lighted,  how  it  roars  and  plays, 
And  sways  to  every  breath  its  flames,  refined 
By  fancy  to  some  shape  by  life  confined. 

And  then  how  touching  are  its  latter  days; 

When,  all  its  strength  decayed,  and  spent  the  blaze 
Of  fiery  youth,  grey  ash  is  all  we  find. 

Perhaps  we  know  the  tree,  of  which  the  pile 
Once  formed  a  part,  and  oft  beneath  its  shade 
Have  sported  in  our  youth ;  or  in  quaint  style 

Have  carved  upon  its  rugged  bark  a  name 

Of  which  the  memory  doth  alone  remain — 
A  memory  doomed,  alas !  in  turn  to  fade. 

Bad  enough  as  verse,  the  critic  will  say;  refined, 
confined,  find — what  poor  rhymes  are  these!  and  he 
will  think  me  wrong  to  draw  these  frailties  from  their 
forgotten  abode.  But  I  like  to  think  of  the  solitary 
old  man  sitting  by  his  wood  fire  in  the  old  house, 
not  brooding  bitterly  on  his  frustrate  life,  but  putting 
his  quiet  thoughts  into  the  form  of  a  sonnet.  The 
other  is  equally  good — or  bad,  if  the  critic  will  have 
it  so: — 

The  clock  had  just  struck  five,  and  all  was  still 
Within  my  house,  when  straight  I  open  threw 
With  eager  hand  the  casement  dim  with  dew. 
Oh,  what  a  glorious  flush  of  light  did  fill 
That  old  staircase!  and  then  and  there  did  kill 

139 


Afoot  in  England 

All  those  black  doubts  that  ever  do  renew 
Their  civil  war  with  all  that's  good  and  true 
Within  our  hearts,  when  body  and  mind  are  ill 
From  this  slight  incident  I  would  infer 
A  cheerful  truth,  that  men  without  demur, 
In  times  of  stress  and  doubt,  throw  open  wide 
The  windows  of  their  breast ;  nor  stung  by  pride 
In  stifling  darkness  gloomily  abide; 
But  bid  the  light  flow  in  on  either  side. 

A  "slight  incident"  and  a  beautiful  thought.  But 
all  I  have  so  far  said  about  the  little  book  is  pre- 
liminary to  what  I  wish  to  say  about  another  sonnet 
which  must  alst)  be  quoted.  It  is  perhaps,  as  a 
sonnet,  as  ill  done  as  the  others,  but  the  subject  of 
it  specially  attracted  me,  as  it  happened  to  be  one 
which  was  much  in  my  mind  during  my  week's  stay  at 
Norton. 

That  remote  little  village  without  a  squire  or  any 
person  of  means  or  education  in  or  near  it  capable 
of  feeling  the  slightest  interest  in  the  people,  except 
the  parson,  an  old  infirm  man  who  was  never  seen 
but  once  a  week — how  wanting  in  some  essential 
thing  it  appeared!  It  seemed  to  me  that  the  one 
thing  which  might  be  done  in  these  small  centres  of 
rural  life  to  brighten  and  beautify  existence  is  pre- 
cisely the  thing  which  is  never  done,  also  that  what 
really  is  being  done  is  of  doubtful  value  and  some- 
times actually  harmful. 

Leaving  Norton  one  day  I  visited  other  small 
villages  in  the  neighbourhood  and  found  they  were 
no  better  off.     I  had  heard  of  the  rector  of  one  of 

140 


The  Last  of  His  Name 

these  villages  as  a  rather  original  man,  and  went  and 
discussed  the  subject  with  him.  "It  is  quite  useless 
thinking  about  it,"  he  said.  "The  people  here  arc 
clods,  and  will  not  respond  to  any  effort  you  can 
make  to  Introduce  a  little  light  and  sweetness  into 
their  lives."  There  was  no  more  to  be  said  to  him, 
but  I  knew  he  was  wrong.  I  found  the  villagers  in 
that  part  of  the  country  the  most  intelligent  and 
responsive  people  of  their  class  I  had  ever  encoun- 
tered. It  was  a  delightful  experience  to  go  Into 
their  cottages,  not  to  read  them  a  homily  or  to  present 
them  with  a  book  or  a  shilling,  nor  to  inquire  into 
their  welfare,  material  and  spiritual,  but  to  converse 
intimately  with  a  human  interest  In  them,  as  would 
be  the  case  In  a  country  where  there  are  no  caste 
distinctions.  It  was  delightful,  because  they  were  so 
responsive,  so  sympathetic,  so  alive. 

Now  It  was  just  at  this  time,  when  the  subject  was 
in  my  mind,  that  the  book  of  sonnets  came  into  my 
hands — given  to  me  by  the  generous  caretaker — 
and  I  read  In  It  this  one  on  "Innocent  Amuse- 
ments" : — 

There  lacks  a  something  to  complete  the  round 
Of  our  fair  England's  homely  happiness — 
A  something,  yet  how  oft  do  trifles  bless 

When  greater  gifts  by  far  redound 

To  honours  lone,  but  no  responsive  sound 
Of  joy  or  mirth  awake,  nay,  oft  oppress. 
While  gifts  of  which  we  scarce  the  moment  guess 

In  never-failing  joys  abound. 

No  nation  can  be  truly  great 

141 


Afoot  in  England 

That  hath  not  something  childlike  in  its  life 
Of  every  day;  it  should  its  youth  renew 
With  simple  joys  that  sweetly  recreate 

The  jaded  mind,  conjoined  in   friendly  strife 
The  pleasures  of  its  childhood  days  pursue. 

What  wise  and  kindly  thoughts  he  had — the  old 
squire  of  Norton !  Surely,  when  telling  me  the  story 
of  his  life,  they  had  omitted  something!  I  ques- 
tioned them  on  the  point.  Did  he  not  in  all  the 
years  he  was  at  Norton  House,  and  later  when  he 
lived  among  them  in  a  cottage  in  the  village — did  he 
not  go  into  their  homes  and  meet  them  as  if  he  knew 
and  felt  that  they  were  all  of  the  same  flesh,  children 
of  one  universal  Father,  and  did  he  not  make  them 
feel  this  about  him — that  the  differences  in  fortune 
and  position  and  education  were  mere  accidents? 
And  the  answer  was;  No,  certainly  not!  as  if  I  had 
asked  a  preposterous  question.  He  was  the  squire,  a 
gentleman — any  one  might  understand  that  he  could 
not  come  among  them  like  that!  That  is  what  a 
parson  can  do  because  he  is,  so  to  speak,  paid  to 
keep  an  eye  on  them,  and  besides  it's  rehgion  there 
and  a  different  thing.  But  the  squire ! — their  squire, 
that  dignified  old  gentleman,  so  upright  in  his  saddle, 
so  considerate  and  courteous  to  every  one — ^but  he 
never  forgot  his  position — never  in  that  way!  I  also 
asked  if  he  had  never  tried  to  establish,  or  advocated, 
or  suggested  to  them  any  kind  of  reunions  to  take 
place  from  time  to  time,  or  an  entertainment  or 
festival  to  get  them  to  come  pleasantly  together, 
making  a  brightness  in  their  lives^ — something  which 

142 


The  Last  of  His  Name 

would  not  be  cricket  or  football,  nor  any  form  of 
sport  for  a  few  of  the  men,  all  the  others  being  mere 
lookers-on  and  the  women  and  children  left  out  al- 
together; something  which  would  be  for  and  in- 
clude everyone,  from  the  oldest  grey  labourer  no 
longer  able  to  work  to  the  toddling  little  ones;  some- 
thing of  their  own  invention,  peculiar  to  Norton, 
which  would  be  their  pride  and  make  their  village 
dearer  to  them?  And  the  answer  was  still  no, 
and  no,  and  no.  He  had  never  attempted,  never 
suggested,  anything  of  the  sort.  How  could  he — the 
squire  I     Yet  he  wrote  those  wise  words : — 

No  nation  can  be  truly  great 

That  hath  not  something  childlike  in  its  life 
Of  every  day. 

Why  are  we  lacking  in  that  which  others  undoubt- 
edly have,  a  something  to  complete  the  round  of 
homely  happiness  in  our  little  rural  centres;  how  is  it 
that  we  do  not  properly  encourage  the  things  which, 
albeit  childHke,  are  essential,  which  sweetly  recreate? 
It  is  not  merely  the  selfishness  of  those  who  are  well 
placed  and  prefer  to  live  for  themselves,  or  who  have 
light  but  care  not  to  shed  it  on  those  who  are  not  of 
their  class.  Selfishness  is  common  enough  every- 
where, in  men  of  all  races.  It  is  not  selfishness,  nor 
the  growth  of  towns  or  decay  of  agriculture,  which 
as  a  fact  does  not  decay,  nor  education,  nor  any 
of  the  other  causes  usually  given  for  the  dullness, 
the  greyness  of  village  life.  The  chief  cause,  I  take 
it,  is  that  gulf,  or  barrier,  which  exists  between  men 

143 


Afoot  in  England 

and  men  in  different  classes  in  our  country,  or  a 
considerable  portion  of  it — the  caste  feeling  which  Is 
becoming  increasingly  rigid  in  the  rural  world,  if  my 
own  observation,  extending  over  a  period  of  twenty- 
five  years,  is  not  all  wrong. 


144 


Chapter  Eleven:     Salisbury  and 

Its  Doves 

Never  in  my  experience  has  there  been  a  worse 
spring  season  than  that  of  1903  for  the  birds, 
more  especially  for  the  short-winged  migrants. 
In  April  I  looked  for  the  woodland  warblers  and  found 
them  not,  or  saw  but  a  few  of  the  commonest  kinds. 
It  was  only  too  easy  to  account  for  this  rarity.  The 
bitter  north-east  wind  had  blown  every  day  and  all 
day  long  during  those  weeks  when  birds  are  coming, 
and  when  nearing  the  end  of  their  journey,  at  its 
most  perilous  stage,  the  wind  had  been  dead  against 
them;  its  coldness  and  force  was  too  much  for  these 
delicate  travellers,  and  doubtless  they  were  beaten 
down  in  thousands  into  the  grey  waters  of  a  bitter  sea. 
The  stronger-winged  wheatear  was  more  fortunate, 
since  he  comes  In  March,  and  before  that  spell  of 
deadly  weather  he  was  already  back  in  his  breeding 
haunts  on  Salisbury  Plain,  and,  in  fact,  everywhere 
on  that  open  down  country.  I  was  there  to  hear  him 
sing  his  wild  notesi  to  the  listening  waste — singing 
them,  as  his  pretty  fashion  is,  up  in  the  air,  suspended 
on  quickly  vibrating  wings  like  a  great  black  and  white 
moth.  But  he  was  in  no  singing  mood,  and  at  last,  in 
desperation,  I  fled  to  Salisbury  to  wait  for  loitering 
spring  in  that  unattractive  town. 

The  streets  were  cold  as  the  open  plain,  and  there 
was  no  comfort  indoors ;  to  haunt  the  cathedral  during 

145 


Afoot  in  England 

those  vacant  days  was  the  only  occupation  left  to  me. 
There  was  some  shelter  to  be  had  under  the  walls,  and 
the  empty,  vast  interior  would  seem  almost  cosy  on 
coming  in  from  the  wind.  At  service  my  due  feet 
never  failed,  while  morning,  noon,  and  evening  I  paced 
the  smooth  level  green  by  the  hour,  standing  at  in- 
tervals to  gaze  up  at  the  immense  pile  with  its  central 
soaring  spire,  asking  myself  why  I  had  never  greatly 
liked  it  in  the  past  and  did  not  like  it  much  better 
now  when  grown  familiar  with  it.  Undoubtedly  it 
is  one  of  the  noblest  structures  of  its  kind  in  England 
— even  my  eyes  that  look  coldly  on  most  buildings 
could  see  it;  and  I  could  admire,  even  reverence,  but 
could  not  love.  It  suffers  by  comparison  with  other 
temples  into  which  my  soul  has  wandered.  It  has  not 
the  majesty  and  appearance  of  immemorial  age,  the 
dim  religious  richness  of  the  interior,  with  much  else 
that  goes  to  make  up,  without  and  within,  the  expres- 
sion which  is  so  marked  in  other  mediaeval  fanes — 
Winchester,  Ely,  York,  Canterbury,  Exeter,  and  Wells. 
To  the  dry,  mechanical  mind  of  the  architect  these 
great  cathedrals  are  in  the  highest  degree  imperfect, 
according  to  the  rules  of  his  art:  to  all  others  this 
imperfectness  is  their  chief  excellence  and  glory;  for 
they  are  in  a  sense  a  growth,  a  flower  of  many  minds 
and  many  periods,  and  are  imperfect  even  as  Nature 
is,  in  her  rocks  and  trees;  and,  being  in  harmony 
with  Nature  and  like  Nature,  they  are  inexpressibly 
beautiful  and  satisfying  beyond  all  buildings  to  the 
aesthetic  as  well  as  to  the  religious  sense. 

Occasionally  I  met  and  talked  with  an  old  man 

146 


Salisbury  and  Its  Doves 

employed  at  the  cathedral.  One  day,  closing  one  eye 
and  shading  the  other  with  his  hand,  he  gazed  up  at 
the  building  for  some  time,  and  then  remarked:  ^Tll 
tell  you  what's  wrong  with  Salisbury — it  looks  too 
noo."  He  was  near  the  mark;  the  fault  is  that  to 
the  professional  eye  it  is  faultless;  the  lack  of  ex- 
pression is  due  to  the  fact  that  it  came  complete  from 
its  maker's  brain,  like  a  coin  from  the  mint,  and  being 
all  on  one  symmetrical  plan  it  has  the  trim,  neat 
appearance  of  a  toy  cathedral  carved  out  of  wood  and 
set  on  a  green-painted  square. 

After  all,  my  thoughts  and  criticisms  on  the 
cathedral,  as  a  building,  were  merely  incidental;  my 
serious  business  was  with  the  feathered  people  to  be 
seen  there.  Few  in  the  woods  and  fewer  on  the 
windy  downs,  here  birds  were  abundant,  not  only  on 
the  building,  where  they  were  like  sea-fowl  con- 
gregated on  a  precipitous  rock,  but  they  were  all 
about  me.  The  level  green  was  the  hunting  ground 
of  many  thrushes — a  dozen  or  twenty  could  often  be 
seen  at  one  time — and  it  was  easy  to  spot  those  that 
had  young.  The  worm  they  dragged  out  was  not 
devoured;  another  was  looked  for,  then  another; 
then  all  were  cut  up  in  proper  lengths  and  beaten 
and  bruised,  and  finally  packed  into  a  bundle  and 
carried  off.  Rooks,  too,  were  there,  breeding  on  the 
cathedral  elms,  and  had  no  time  and  spirit  to  wrangle, 
but  could  only  caw-caw  distressfully  at  the  wind, 
which  tossed  them  hither  and  thither  in  the  air  and 
lashed  the  tall  trees,  threatening  at  each  fresh  gust  to 
blow  their  nests  to  pieces.     Small  birds  of  half  a 

147 


Afoot  in  England 

dozen  kinds  were  also  there,  and  one  tinkle-tinkled 
his  spring  song  quite  merrily  in  spite  of  the  cold 
that  kept  the  others  silent  and  made  me  blue.  One 
day  I  spied  a  big  queen  bumble-bee  on  the  ground, 
looking  extremely  conspicuous  in  its  black  and 
chestnut  coat  on  the  fresh  green  sward;  and  think- 
ing it  numbed  by  the  cold  I  picked  it  up.  It  moved 
its  legs  feebly,  but  alas!  its  enemy  had  found  and 
struck  it  down,  and  with  its  hard,  sharp  little  beak 
had  drilled  a  hole  in  one  of  the  upper  plates  of  its 
abdomen,  and  from  that  small  opening  had  cunningly 
extracted  all  the  meat.  Though  still  alive  it  was 
empty  as  a  blown  eggshell.  Poor  queen  and  mother, 
you  survived  the  winter  in  vain,  and  went  abroad  in 
vain  in  the  bitter  weather  in  quest  of  bread  to  nourish 
your  few  first-born — the  grubs  that  would  help  you 
by  and  by;  now  there  will  be  no  bread  for  them,  and 
for  you  no  populous  city  in  the  flowery  earth  and  a 
great  crowd  of  children  to  rise  up  each  day,  when 
days  are  long,  to  call  you  blessed!  And  he  who 
did  this  thing,  the  unspeakable  oxeye  with  his  black 
and  yellow  breast — ''catanic  black  and  amber" — even 
while  I  made  my  lamentation  was  tinkling  his  merry 
song  overhead  in  the  windy  elms. 

The  birds  that  lived  on  the  huge  cathedral  itself 
had  the  greatest  attraction  for  me;  and  here  the 
daws,  if  not  the  most  numerous,  were  the  most 
noticeable,  as  they  ever  are  on  account  of  their  con- 
spicuousness  in  their  black  plumage,  their  loquacity 
and  everlasting  restlessness.  Far  up  on  the  ledge 
from  which  the  spire  rises  a  kestrel  had  found  a  cosy 

148 


Salisbury  and  Its  Doves 

corner  in  which  to  establish  himself,  and  one  day 
when  I  was  there  a  number  of  daws  took  it  on  them- 
selves to  eject  him:  they  gathered  near  and  flew  this 
way  and  that,  and  cawed  and  cawed  in  anger,  and 
swooped  at  him,  until  he  could  stand  their  insults  no 
longer,  and,  suddenly  dashing  out,  he  struck  and 
buffeted  them  right  and  left  and  sent  them  screaming 
with  fear  in  all  directions.  After  this  they  left  him 
in  peace:  they  had  forgotten  that  he  was  a  hawk, 
and  that  even  the  gentle  mousing  wind-hover  has  a 
nobler  spirit  than  any  crow  of  them  all. 

On  first  coming  to  the  cathedral  I  noticed  a  few 
pigeons  sitting  on  the  roof  and  ledges  very  high  up, 
and,  not  seeing  them  well,  I  assumed  that  they  were 
of  the  common  or  domestic  kind.  By  and  by  one 
cooed,  then  another;  and  recognizing  the  stock-dove 
note  I  began  to  look  carefully,  and  found  that  all  the 
birds  on  the  building — about  thirty  pairs — were  of 
this  species.  It  was  a  great  surprise,  for  though  we 
occasionally  find  a  pair  of  stock-doves  breeding  on 
the  ivied  wall  of  some  inhabited  mansion  in  the 
country,  it  was  a  new  thing  to  find  a  considerable 
colony  of  this  shy  woodland  species  established  on  a 
building  in  a  town.  They  lived  and  bred  there  just 
as  the  common  pigeon — the  vari-coloured  descendant 
of  the  blue  rock — does  on  St.  Paul's,  the  Law  Courts, 
and  the  British  Museum  in  London.  Only,  unlike 
our  metropolitan  doves,  both  the  domestic  kind  and 
the  ringdove  in  the  parks,  the  Salisbury  doves 
though  in  the  town  are  not  of  it.  They  come  not 
down  to  mix  with  the  currents  of  human  life  in  the 

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Afoot  in  England 
streets  and  open  spaces;  they  fly  away  to  the  country 
to  feed,  and  dwell  on  the  cathedral  above  the  houses 
and  people  just  as  sea-birds — kittiwake  and  guillemot 
and  gannet — dwell  on  the  ledges  of  some  vast  ocean- 
fronting  cliff. 

The  old  man  mentioned  above  told  me  that  the 
birds  were  called  "rocks"  by  the  townspeople,  also 
that  they  had  been  there  for  as  long  as  he  could 
remember.  Six  or  seven  years  ago,  he  said,  when 
the  repairs  to  the  roof  and  spire  were  started,  the 
pigeons  began  to  go  away  until  there  was  not  one 
left.  The  work  lasted  three  years,  and  immediately 
on  its  conclusion  the  doves  began  to  return,  and  were 
now  as  numerous  as  formerly.  How,  I  Inquired,  did 
these  innocent  birds  get  on  with  their  black  neigh- 
bours, seeing  that  the  daw  is  a  cunning  creature  much 
given  to  persecution — a  crow,  in  fact,  as  black  as  any 
of  his  family?  They  got  on  badly,  he  said;  the 
doves  were  early  breeders,  beginning  in  March,  and 
were  allowed  to  have  the  use  of  the  holes  until  the 
daws  wanted  them  at  the  end  of  April,  when  they 
forcibly  ejected  the  young  doves.  He  said  that  in 
spring  he  always  picked  up  a  good  many  young 
doves,  often  unfledged,  thrown  down  by  the  daws. 
I  did  not  doubt  his  story.  I  had  just  found  a  young 
bird  myself — a  little  blue-skinned,  yellow-mouthed 
fledgling  which  had  fallen  sixty  or  seventy  feet  on  to 
the  gravel  below.  But  in  June,  he  said,  when  the 
daws  brought  off  their  young,  the  doves  entered  into 
possession  once  more,  and  were  then  permitted  to  rear 
their  young  in  peace. 

150 


Salisbury  and  Its  Doves 

I  returned  to  Salisbury  about  the  middle  of  May 
in  better  weather,  when  there  were  days  that  were 
almost  genial,  and  found  the  cathedral  a«  greater 
''habitacle  of  birds"  than  ever:  starlings,  swifts,  and 
swallows  were  there,  the  lively  little  martins  in 
hundreds,  and  the  doves  and  daws  in  their  usual 
numbers.  All  appeared  to  be  breeding,  and  for  some 
time  I  saw  no  quarreling.  At  length  I  spied  a  pair 
of  doves  with  a  nest  in  a  small  cavity  in  the  stone  at 
the  back  of  a  narrow  ledge  about  seventy  feet  from 
-  the  ground,  and  by  standing  back  some  distance  I  could 
see  the  hen  bird  sitting  on  the  nest,  while  the  cock 
stood  outside  on  the  ledge  keeping  guard.  I  watched 
this  pair  for  some  hours  and  saw  a  jackdaw  sweep 
down  on  them  a  dozen  or  more  times  at  long  inter- 
vals. Sometimes  after  swooping  down  he  would 
alight  on  the  ledge  a  yard  or  two  away,  and  the  male 
dove  would  then  turn  and  face  him,  and  if  he  then 
began  sidling  up  the  dove  would  dash  at  and  buffet 
him  with  his  wings  with  the  greatest  violence  and 
throw  him  off.  When  he  swooped  closer  the  dove 
would  spring  up  and  meet  him  in  the  air,  striking 
him  at  the  moment  of  meeting,  and  again  the  daw 
would  be  beaten.  When  I  left  three  days  after  wit- 
nessing this  contest,  the  doves  were  still  in  possession 
of  their  nest,  and  I  concluded  that  they  were  not  so 
entirely  at  the  mercy  of  the  jackdaw  as  the  old  man 
had  led  me  .to  believe. 

It  was,  on  this  occasion,  a  great  pleasure  to  listen 
to  the  doves.  The  stock-dove  has  no  set  song,  like 
the  ringdove,   but  like   all   the   other   species   In   the 

151 


Afoot  in  England 

typical  genus  Columba  it  has  the  cooing  or  family 
note,  one  of  the  most  human-like  sounds  which  birds 
emit.  In  the  stock-dove  this  is  a  better,  more 
musical,  and  a  more  varied  sound  than  in  any  other 
Columba  known  to  me.  The  pleasing  quality  of  the 
sound  as  well  as  the  variety  in  it  could  be  well  noted 
here  where  the  birds  were  many,  scattered  about  on 
ledges  and  projections  high  above  the  earth,  and  when 
bird  after  bird  uttered  its  plaint,  each  repeating  his 
note  half  a  dozen  to  a  dozen  times,  one  in  slow 
measured  time,  and  deep-voiced  like  the  rock-dove, 
but  more  musical;  another  rapidly,  with  shorter,  im- 
petuous notes  in  a  higher  key,  as  if  carried  away  by 
excitement.  There  were  not  twa  birds  that  cooed  in 
precisely  the  same  way,  and  the  same  bird  would  often 
vary  its  manner  of  cooing. 

It  was  best  to  hear  them  during  the  afternoon 
service  in  the  cathedral,  when  the  singing  of  the  choir 
and  throbbing  and  pealing  of  the  organ  which  filled 
the  vast  interior  was  heard  outside,  subdued  by  the 
walls  through  which  it  passed,  and  was  like  a  beautiful 
mist  or  atmosphere  of  sound  pervading  and  envelop- 
ing the  great  building;  and  when  the  plaining  of  the 
doves,  owing  to  the  rhythmic  flow  of  the  notes  and 
their  human  characters,  seemed  to  harmonize  with 
and  be  a  part  of  that  sacred  music. 


152 


Chapter  Twelve:     Whitesheet  Hill 

On  Easter  Saturday  the  roadsides  and  copses  by  the 
little  river  Nadder  were  full  of  children  gathering 
primroses;  they  might  have  filled  a  thousand  baskets 
without  the  flowers  being  missed,  so  abundant  were 
they  in  that  place.  Cold  though  it  was  the  whole  air 
was  laden  with  the  delicious  fragrance.  It  was  pleas- 
ant to  see  and  talk  with  the  little  people  occupied  with 
the  task  they  loved  so  well,  and  I  made  up  my  mind  to 
see  the  result  of  all  this  flower-gathering  next  day  in 
some  of  the  village  churches  in  the  neighbourhood — 
Fovant,  Teffant  Evias,  Chilmark,  Swallowcliffe,  Tis- 
bury,  and  Fonthill  Bishop.  I  had  counted  on  some 
improvement  in  the  weather — some  bright  sunshine 
to  light  up  the  flower-decorated  interiors;  but 
Easter  Sunday  proved  colder  than  ever,  with  the 
bitter  north-east  still  blowing,  the  grey  travelling 
cloud  still  covering  the  sky;  and  so  to  get  the  full 
benefit  of  the  bitterness  I  went  instead  to  spend  my 
day  on  the  top  of  the  biggest  down  above  the  valley. 
That  was  Whitesheet  Hill,  and  forms  the  highest  part 
of  the  long  ridge  dividing  the  valleys  of  the  Ebble 
and  Nadder. 

It  was  roughest  and  coldest  up  there,  and  suited 
my  temper  best,  for  when  the  weather  seems  spite- 
ful one  finds  a  grim  sort  of  satisfaction  in  defying  it. 

153 


Afoot  in  England 

On  a  genial  day  it  would  have  been  very  pleasant  on 
that  lofty  plain,  for  the  flat  top  of  the  vast  down  is 
like  a  plain  in  appearance,  and  the  earthworks  on  it 
show  that  it  was  once  a  populous  habitation  of  man. 
Now  because  of  the  wind  and  cloud  its  aspect  was 
bare  and  bleak  and  desolate,  and  after  roaming  about 
for  an  hour,  exploring  the  thickest  furze  patches,  I 
began  to  think  that  my  day  would  have  to  be  spent 
in  solitude,  without  a  living  creature  to  keep  me 
company.  The  birds  had  apparently  all  been  blown 
away  and  the  rabbits  were  staying  at  home  in  their 
burrows.  Not  even  an  insect  could  I  see,  although 
the  furze  was  in  full  blossom;  the  honey-suckers 
were  out  of  sight  and  torpid,  and  the  bloom  itself 
could  no  longer  look  "unprofitably  gay,"  as  the  poet 
says  it  does.  "Not  even  a  wheatear!"  I  said,  for  I 
had  counted  on  that  bird  in  the  intervals  between  the 
storms,  although  I  knew  I  should  not  hear  his  wild 
delightful  warble  in  such  weather. 

Then,  all  at  once,  I  beheld  that  very  bird,  a  solitary 
female,  flittering  on  over  the  flat  ground  before  me, 
perching  on  the  little  green  ant-mounds  and  flirting 
its  tail  and  bobbing  as  if  greatly  excited  at  my 
presence  in  that  lonely  place.  I  wondered  where  its 
mate  was,  following  it  from  place  to  place  as  it  flew, 
determined  now  I  had  found  a  bird  to  keep  it  in 
sight.  Presently  a  great  blackness  appeared  low 
down  In  the  cloudy  sky,  and  rose  and  spread, 
travelling  fast  towards  me,  and  the  little  wheatear 
fled  in  fear  from  it  and  vanished  from  sight  over  the 
rim    of  the    down.     But   I    was    there    to    defy   the 

154 


Whitesheet  Hill 

weather,    and  so    instead    of    following  the  bird  in 
search  of  shelter  I  sat  down  among  some  low  furze 
bushes  and  waited  and  watched.     By  and  by  I  caught 
sight   of  three  magpies,   rising  one  by   one   at  long 
intervals   from   the   furze   and   flying  laboriously   to- 
wards   a    distant   hill-top    grove    of   pines.     Then    I 
heard  the  wailing  cry  of  a  peewit,  and  caught  sight 
of  the  bird  at  a  distance,  and  soon  afterwards  a  sound 
of    another    character — the    harsh    angry    cry    of    a 
carrion  crow,   almost  as   deep   as   the   raven's   angry 
voice.     Before  long  I  discovered  the  bird  at  a  great 
height  coming  towards  me  in  hot  pursuit  of  a  kestrel. 
They  passed  directly  over  me  so  that  I  had  them  a 
long  time  in  sight,  the  kestrel  travelling  quietly  on 
in  the  face  of  the  wind,  the  crow  tolling  after,  and  at 
intervals   spurting  till   he   got  near   enough   to   hurl 
himself  at  his   enemy,   emitting  his  croaks  of  rage. 
For  invariably  the   kestrel  with   one   of  his  sudden 
swallow-like  turns  avoided  the  blow  and  went  on  as 
before.     I    watched    them    until    they   were    lost   to 
sight    in   the    coming   blackness    and    wondered    that 
so  intelligent  a  creature  as  a  crow  should  waste  his 
energies  in  that  vain  chase.     Still  one  could  under- 
stand  it   and   even   sympathize   with   him.     For  the 
kestrel  is  a  most  Insulting  creature  towards  the  bigger 
birds.     He  knows  that  they  are  incapable  of  paying 
him   out,    and  when   he   finds   them   off   their   guard 
he  will  drop  down  and  Inflict  a  blow  just  for  the  fun  of 
the  thing.     This  outraged  crow  appeared  determined 
to  have  his  revenge. 

Then  the  storm  broke  on  me,  and  so  fiercely  did 

155 


Afoot  in  England 

the  rain  and  sleet  thrash  me  that,  fearing  a  cold 
soaking,  I  fled  before  it  to  the  rim  of  the  plain, 
where  the  wheatear  had  vanished,  and  saw  a  couple 
of  hundred  yards  down  on  the  smooth  steep  slope  a 
thicket  of  dwarf  trees.  It  was  the  only  shelter  in 
sight,  and  to  it  I  went,  to  discover  much  to  my  dis- 
gust that  the  trees  were  nothing  but  elders.  For 
there  is  no  tree  that  affords  so  poor  a  shelter,  espe- 
cially on  the  high  open  downs,  where  the  foliage  is 
scantier  than  in  other  situations  and  lets  in  the  wind 
and  rain  in  full  force  upon  you. 

But  the  elder  affects  me  in  two  ways.  I  like  it 
on  account  of  early  associations,  and  because  the 
birds  delight  in  its  fruit,  though  they  wisely 
refuse  to  build  in  its  branches;  and  I  dislike  it  be- 
cause its  smell  is  offensive  to  me  and  its  berries  the 
least  pleasant  of  all  wild  fruits  to  my  taste.  I  can 
eat  ivy-berries  in  March,  and  yew  in  its  season,  poison 
or  not;  and  hips  and  haws  and  holly-berries  and  harsh 
acorn,  and  the  rowan,  which  some  think  acrid;  but 
the  elderberry  I  can't  stomach. 

How  comes  it,  I  have  asked  more  than  once,  that 
this  poor  tree  is  so  often  seen  on  the  downs  where  it 
is  so  badly  fitted  to  be  and  makes  so  sorry  an  ap- 
pearance with  its  weak  branches  broken  and  its  soft 
leaves  torn  by  the  winds?  How  badly  it  contrasts  with 
the  other  trees  and  bushes  that  flourish  on  the  downs 
— furze,  juniper,  holly,  blackthorn,  and  hawthorn ! 

Two  years  ago,  one  day  in  the  early  spring,  I  was 
walking  on  an  extensive  down  in  another  part  of 
Wiltshire    with  the  tenant  of  the  land,    who  began 

156 


Whitesheet  Hill 

there  as  a  large  sheep-farmer,  but  eventually  finding 
that  he  could  make  more  with  rabbits  than  with 
sheep  turned  most  of  his  land  into  a  warren.  The 
higher  part  of  this  down  was  overgrown  with  furze, 
mixed  with  holly  and  other  bushes,  but  the  slopes 
were  mostly  very  bare.  At  one  spot  on  a  wide  bare 
slope  where  the  rabbits  had  formed  a  big  group  of 
burrows  there  was  a  close  little  thicket  of  young 
elder  trees,  looking  exceedingly  conspicuous  in  the 
bright  green  of  early  April.  Calling  my  companion's 
attention  to  this  little  thicket  I  said  something  about 
the  elder  growing  on  the  open  downs  where  it  always 
appeared  to  be  out  of  harmony  with  its  surround- 
ing's. *'I  don't  suppose  you  planted  elders  here," 
I  said. 

*'No,  but  I  know  who  did,"  he  returned,  and  he 
then  gave  me  this  curious  history  of  the  trees.  Five 
years  before,  the  rabbits,  finding  it  a  suitable  spot 
to  dig  In,  probably  because  of  a  softer  chalk  there, 
made  a  number  of  deep  burrows  at  that  spot.  When 
the  wheatears,  or  "horse-maggers"  as  he  called  them, 
returned  In  spring  two  or  three  pairs  attached 
themselves  to  this  group  of  burrows  and  bred  In 
them.  There  was  that  season  a  solitary  elder-bush 
higher  up  on  the  down  among  the  furze  which  bore 
a  heavy  crop  of  berries;  and  when  the  fruit  was 
ripe  he  watched  the  birds  feeding  on  it,  the  wheat- 
ears  among  them.  The  following  spring  seedlings 
came  up  out  of  the  loose  earth  heaped  about  the 
rabbit  burrows,  and  as  they  were  not  cut  down  by  the 
rabbits,  for  they  dislike  the  elder,  they  grew  up,  and 

157 


Afoot  in  England 

now  formed  a  clump  of  fifty  or  sixty  little  trees  of 
six  feet  to  eight  feet  in  height. 

Who  would  have  thought  to  find  a  tree-planter  in 
the  wheatear,  the  bird  of  the  stony  waste  and  open 
naked  down,  who  does  not  even  ask  for  a  bush  to 
perch  on? 

It  then  occurred  to  me  that  in  every  case  where  I 
had  observed  a  clump  of  elder  bushes  on  the  bare 
downside,  it  grew  upon  a  village  or  collection  of  rab- 
bit burrows,  and  it  is  probable  that  in  every  case 
the  clump  owed  its  existence  to  the  wheatears  who 
had  dropped  the  seed  about  their  nesting-place. 

The  clump  where  I  had  sought  a  shelter  .from  the 
storm  was  composed  of  large  old  dilapidated-looking 
half-dead  elders;  perhaps  their  age  was  not  above 
thirty  or  forty  years,  but  they  looked  older  than  haw- 
thorns of  one  or  two  centuries;  and  under  them  the 
rabbits  had  their  diggings — huge  old  mounds  and 
burrows  that  looked  like  a  badger's  earth.  Here, 
too,  the  burrows  had  probably  existed  first  and  had 
attracted  the  wheatears,  and  the  birds  had  brought  the 
seed  from  some  distant  bush. 

Crouching  down  in  one  of  the  big  burrows  at  the 
roots  of  an  old  elder  I  remained  for  half  an  hour, 
listening  to  the  thump-thump  of  the  alarmed  rabbits 
about  me,  and  the  accompanying  hiss  and  swish  of  the 
wind  and  sleet  and  rain  in  the  ragged  branches. 

The  storm  over  I  continued  my  rambles  on  White- 
sheet  Hill,  and  coming  back  an  hour  or  two  later 
to  the  very  spot  where  I  had  seen  and  followed  the 
wheatear,  I  all  at  once  caught  sight  of  a  second  bird, 

158 


Whitesheet  Hill 

lying  dead  on  the  turf  close  to  my  feet  I  The  sudden 
sight  gave  me  a  shock  of  astonishment,  mingled  with 
admiration  and  grief.  For  how  pretty  it  looked, 
though  dead,  lying  on  its  back,  the  little  black  legs 
stuck  stiffly  up,  the  long  wings  pressed  against  the 
sides,  their  black  tips  touching  together  like  the 
clasped  hands  of  a  corpse;  and  the  fan-like  black  and 
white  tail,  half  open  as  in  life,  moved  perpetually  up 
and  down  by  the  wind,  as  if  that  tail-flirting  action 
of  the  bird  had  continued  after  death.  It  was  very 
beautiful  in  its  delicate  shape  and  pale  harmonious 
colouring,  resting  on  the  golden-green  mossy  turf. 
And  it  was  a  male,  undoubtedly  the  mate  of  the 
wheatcar  I  had  seen  at  the  spot,  and  its  little  mate, 
not  knowing  what  death  is,  had  probably  been  keeping 
watch  near  it,  wondering  at  its  strange  stillness  and 
greatly  fearing  for  its  safety  when  I  came  that  way, 
and  passed  by  without  seeing  it. 

Poor  little  migrant,  did  you  come  back  across  half 
the  world  for  this — back  to  your  home  on  Whitesheet 
Hill  to  grow  cold  and  fail  in  the  cold  April  wind,  and 
finally  to  look  very  pretty,  lying  stiff  and  cold,  to  the 
one  pair  of  human  eyes  that  were  destined  to  see  you! 
The  little  birds  that  come  and  go  and  return  to  us 
over  such  vast  distances,  they  perish  like  this  in 
myriads  annually;  flying  to  and  from  us  they  are 
blown  away  by  death  like  sere  autumn  leaves,  "the 
pestilence-stricken  multitudes"  whirled  away  by  the 
wind  I  They  die  in  myriads:  that  is  not  strange; 
the  strange,  the  astonishing  thing  is  the  fact  of  death; 
what  can  they  tell  us  of  it — the  wise  men  who  live  or 

159 


Afoot  in  England 

have  ever  lived  on  the  earth — what  can  they  say  now 
of  the  bright  intelligent  spirit,  the  dear  little  emotional 
soul,  that  had  so  fit  a  tenement  and  so  fitly  expressed 
itself  in  motions  of  such  exquisite  grace,  in  melody 
so  sweet!  Did  it  go  out  like  the  glow-worm's  lamp, 
the  life  and  sweetness  of  the  flower?  Was  its  destiny 
not  like  that  of  the  soul,  specialized  in  a  different 
direction,  of  the  saint  or  poet  or  philosopher  I  Alas, 
they  can  tell  us  nothing! 

I  could  not  go  away  leaving  it  in  that  exposed 
place  on  the  turf,  to  be  found  ^  little  later  by  a 
magpie  or  carrion  crow  or  fox,  and  devoured.  Close 
by  there  was  a  small  round  hillock,  an  old  forsaken 
nest  of  the  little  brown  ants,  green  and  soft  with 
moss  and  small  creeping  herbs — a  suitable  grave  for 
a  wheatear.  Cutting  out  a  round  piece  of  turf  from 
the  side,  I  made  a  hole  with  my  stick  and  put  the  dead 
bird  in  and  replacing  the  turf  left  it  neatly  buried. 

It  was  not  that  I  had  or  have  any  quarrel  with  the 
creatures  I  have  named,  or  would  have  them  other 
than  they  are — carrion-eaters  and  scavengers.  Nature's 
balance-keepers  and  purifiers.  The  only  creatures  on 
earth  I  loathe  and  hate  are  the  gourmets,  the  carrion- 
crows  and  foxes  of  the  human  kind  who  devour 
wheatears  and  skylarks  at  their  tables. 


i6o 


Chapter  Thirteen:     Bath  and 
Wells  Revisited 

'TIs  so  easy  to  get  from  London  to  Bath,  by  merely 
stepping  into  a  railway  carriage  which  takes  you 
smoothly  without  a  stop  in  two  short  hours  from  Pad- 
dington,  that  I  was  amazed  at  myself  in  having  al- 
lowed ^vt  full  years  to  pass  since  my  previous  visit. 
The  question  was  much  in  my  mind  as  I  strolled  about 
noting  the  old-remembered  names  of  streets  and 
squares  and  crescents.  Quiet  Street  was  the  name  m- 
scribed  on  one;  it  was,  to  me,  the  secret  name  of 
them  all.  The  old  impressions  were  renewed,  an  old 
feeling  partially  recovered.  The  wide,  clean  ways; 
the  solid,  stone-built  houses  with  their  dignified  aspect; 
the  large  distances,  terrace  beyond  terrace;  mansions 
and  vast  green  lawns  and  parks  and  gardens ;  avenues 
and  groups  of  stately  trees,  especially  that  unmatched 
clump  of  old  planes  in  the  Circus ;  the  whole  town,  the 
design  in  the  classic  style  of  one  master  mind,  set  by 
the  Avon,  amid  green  hills,  produced  a  sense  of  har- 
mony and  repose  which  cannot  be  equalled  by  any  other 
town  in  the  kingdom. 

This  idle  time  was  delightful  so  long  as  I  gave 
my  attention  exclusively  to  houses  from  the  outside, 
and  to  hills,  rocks,  trees,  waters,  and  all  visible 
nature,  which  here  harmonizes  with  man's  works.  To 
sit  on  some  high  hill  and  look  down  on  Bath,  sun- 
flushed  or  half  veiled  in  mist;  to  lounge  on  Camden 

i6i 


Afoot  in  England 

Crescent,  or  climb  Sion  Hill,  or  take  my  ease  with 
the  water-drinkers  in  the  spacious,  comfortable  Pump 
Room;  or,  better  still,  to  rest  at  noon  in  the  ancient 
abbey — all  this  was  pleasure  pure  and  simple,  a  quiet 
drifting  back  until  I  found  myself  younger  by  five 
years  than  I  had  taken  myself  to  be. 

I  haunted  the  abbey,  and  the  more  I  saw  of  it  the 
more  I  loved  it.  The  impression  it  had  made  on  me 
during  my  former  visits  had  faded,  or  else  I  had  never 
properly  seen  it,  or  had  not  seen  it  in  the  right 
emotional  mood.  Now  I  began  to  think  it  the  best 
of  all  the  great  abbey  churches  of  England  and  the 
equal  of  the  cathedrals  in  its  effect  on  the  mind. 
How  rich  the  interior  is  in  its  atmosphere  of  tempered 
light  or  tender  gloom  I  How  tall  and  graceful  the 
columns  holding  up  the  high  roof  of  white  stone 
with  its  marvellous  palm-leaf  sculpture !  What  a  vast 
expanse  of  beautifully  stained  glass!  I  certainly  gave 
myself  plenty  of  time  to  appreciate  it  on  this  occasion, 
as  I  visited  it  every  day,  sometimes  two  or  three  times, 
and  not  infrequently  I  sat  there  for  an  hour  at  a 
stretch. 

Sitting  there  one  day,  thinking  of  nothing,  I  was 
gradually  awakened  to  a  feeling  almost  of  astonish- 
ment at  the  sight  of  the  extraordinary  number  of 
memorial  tablets  of  every  imaginable  shape  and  size 
which  crowd  the  walls.  So  numerous  are  they  and 
so  closely  placed  that  you  could  not  find  space  any- 
where to  put  your  hand  against  the  wall.  We  are 
accustomed  to  think  that  in  cathedrals  and  other  great 
ecclesiastical    buildings    the  illustrious    dead    receive 

162 


Bath  and  Wells  Revisited 

burial,  and  their  names  and  claims  on  our  gratitude 
and  reverence  are  recorded,  but  in  no  fane  in  the  land 
is  there  so  numerous  a  gathering  of  the  dead  as  in 
this  place.  The  inscription-covered  walls  were  Hke 
the  pages  of  an  old  black-letter  volume  without 
margins.  Yet  when  I  came  to  think  of  it  I  could 
not  recall  any  Bath  celebrity  or  great  person  associated 
with  Bath  except  Beau  Nash,  who  was  not  perhaps  a 
very  great  person.  Probably  Carlyle  would  have 
described  him  as  a  "mecserable  creature." 

Leaving  my  seat  I  began  to  examine  the  inscrip- 
tions, and  found  that  they  had  not  been  placed  there 
in  memory  of  men  belonging  to  Bath  or  even  Somer- 
set. These  monuments  were  erected  to  persons  from 
all  counties  in  the  three  kingdoms,  and  from  all  the 
big  towns,  those  to  Londoners  being  most  numerous. 
Nor  were  they  of  persons  distinguished  in  any  way. 
Here  you  find  John  or  Henry  or  Thomas  Smith, 
or  Brown,  or  Jones,  or  Robinson,  provision  dealer,  or 
merchant,  of  Clcrkenwell,  or  Bermondsey,  or  Bishops- 
gate  Street  Within  or  Without;  also  many  retired 
captains,  majors,  and  colonels.  There  were  hundreds 
more  whose  professions  or  occupations  in  life  were 
not  stated.  There  were  also  hundreds  of  memorials 
to  ladies — widows  and  spinsters.  They  were  all,  in 
fact,  to  persons  who  had  come  to  die  in  Bath  after 
''taking  the  waters,"  and  dying,  they  or  their  friends 
had  purchased  immortality  on  the  walls  of  the  abbey 
with  a  handful  or  two  of  gold.  Here  is  one  of 
several  inscriptions  of  the  kind  I  took  the  trouble  to 
copy:   "His   early  virtues,   his  cultivated  talents,  his 

163 


Afoot  in  England 

serious  piety,  inexpressibly  endeared  him  to  his  friends 
and  opened  to  them  many  bright  prospects  of  excel- 
lence and  happiness.  These  prospects  have  all  faded," 
and  so  on  for  several  long  lines  in  very  big  letters, 
occupying  a  good  deal  of  space  on  the  wall.  But 
what  and  who  was  he,  and  what  connection  had  he 
with  Bath?  He  was  a  young  man  born  in  the  West 
Indies  who  died  in  Scotland,  and  later  his  mother, 
coming  to  Bath  for  her  health,  ''caused  this  inscrip- 
tion to  be  placed  on  the  abbey  walls" ! 

If  this  policy  or  tradition  is  still  followed  by  the 
abbey  authorities,  it  will  be  necessary  for  them  to 
build  an  annexe;  if  it  be  no  longer  followed,  would 
it  be  going  too  far  to  suggest  that  these  mural  tablets 
to  a  thousand  obscurities,  which  ought  never  to  have 
been  placed  there,  should  now  be  removed  and  placed 
in  some  vault  where  the  relations  or  descendants  of 
the  persons  described  could  find,  and  if  they  wished 
it,  have  them  removed? 

But  it  must  be  said  that  the  abbey  is  not  without 
a  fair  number  of  memorials  with  which  no  one  can 
quarrel;  the  one  I  admire  most,  to  Quin,  the  actor, 
has,  I  think,  the  best  or  the  most  appropriate  epitaph 
ever  written.  No  one,  however  familiar  with  the 
words,  will  find  fault  with  me  for  quoting  them  here : 

That  tongue  which  set  the  table  on  a  roar 

And  charmed  the  public  ear  is  heard  no  more. 

Closed  are  those  eyes,  the  harbingers  of  wit, 

Which  spake  before  the  tongue  what  Shakespeare  writ. 

Cold  is  that  hand  which  living  was  stretched  forth 

At  friendship's  call  to  succor  modest  worth. 

164 


Bath  and  Wells  Revisited 

Here  lies  James  Quin,  deign  readers  to  be  taught 
Whate'er  thy  strength  of  body,  force  of  thought, 
In  Nature's  happiest  mood  however  cast, 
To  this  complexion  thou  must  come  at  last. 

Quin's  monument  strikes  onj  as  the  greatest  there 
because  of  Garrick's  living  words,  but  there  is 
another  very  much  more  beautiful. 

I  first  noticed  this  memorial  on  the  wall  at  a 
distance  of  about  three  yards,  too  far  to  read  any- 
thing in  the  inscription  except  the  name  of  Sib- 
thorpe,  which  was  strange  to  me,  but  instead  of 
going  nearer  to  read  it  I  remained  standing  to  admire 
it  at  that  distance.  The  tablet  was  of  white  marble, 
and  on  it  was  sculptured  the  figure  of  a  young  man 
with  curly  head  and  classic  profile.  He  was  wearing 
sandals  and  a  loose  mantle  held  to  his  breast  with 
one  hand,  while  in  the  other  hand  he  carried  a  bunch 
of  leaves  and  flowers.  He  appeared  in  the  act  of 
stepping  ashore  from  a  boat  of  antique  shape,  and 
the  artist  had  been  singularly  successful  in  producing 
the  idea  of  free  and  vigorous  motion  in  the  figure  as 
well  as  of  some  absorbing  object  in  his  mind.  The 
figure  was  undoubtedly  symbolical,  and  I  began  to 
amuse  myself  by  trying  to  guess  its  meaning.  Then 
a  curious  thing  happened.  A  person  who  had  been 
moving  slowly  along  near  me,  apparently  looking 
with  no  great  interest  at  the  memorials,  came  past 
me  and  glanced  first  at  the  tablet  I  was  looking  at, 
then  at  me.  As  our  eyes  met  I  remarked  that  I  was 
admiring  the  best  memorial  I  had  found  in  the 
abbey,  and  then  added,   "I've  been  trying  to  make 

165 


Afoot  in  England 

out  its  meaning.  You  see  the  man  is  a  traveller  and 
is  stepping  ashore  with  a  flowering  spray  in  his  hand. 
It  strikes  me  that  it  may  have  been  erected  to  the 
memory  of  a  person  who  introduced  some  valuable 
plant  into  England." 

*'Yes,  perhaps,"  he  said.     ^'But  who  was  he?" 

*'I  don't  know  yet,"  I  returned.  "I  can  only  see 
that  his  name  was  Sibthorpe." 

*'Sibthorpe !"  he  exclaimed  excitedly.  "Why,  this 
is  the  very  memorial  I've  been  looking  for  all  over 
the  abbey  and  had  pretty  well  given  up  all  hopes  of 
finding  it."  With  that  he  went  to  it  and  began 
studying  the  inscription,  which  was  in  Latin.  John 
Sibthorpe,  I  found,  was  a  distinguished  botanist,  au- 
thor of  the  Flora  Graca,  who  died  over  a  century  ago. 

I  asked  him  why  he  was  interested  in  Sibthorpe's 
memorial. 

"Well,  you  see,  I'm  a  great  botanist  myself,"  he 
explained,  "and  have  been  familiar  with  his  name  and 
work  all  my  life.  Of  course,"  he  added,  "I  don't 
mean  Fm  great  in  the  sense  that  Sibthorpe  was.  I'm 
only  a  little  local  botanist,  quite  unknown  outside  my 
own  circle;  I  only  mean  that  I'm  a  great  lover  of 
botany." 

I  left  him  there,  and  had  the  curiosity  to  look  up 
the  great  man's  life,  and  found  some  very  curious 
things  in  it.  He  was  a  son  of  Humphrey  Sibthorpe, 
also  a  great  botanist,  who  succeeded  the  still  greater 
Dillenius  as  Sherardian  Professor  of  Botany  at 
Oxford,  a  post  which  he  held  for  thirty-six  years, 
and  during  that  time  he  delivered  one  lecture,  which 

i66 


Bath  and  Wells  Revisited 

was  a  failure.  John,  if  he  did  not  suck  in  botany 
with  his  mother's  milk,  took  it  quite  early  from  his 
father,  and  on  leaving  the  University  went  abroad 
to  continue  his  studies.  Eventually  he  went  to 
Greece,  inflamed  with  the  ambition  to  identify  all 
the  plants  mentioned  by  Dioscorides.  Then  he  set 
about  writing  his  Flora  Graca;  but  he  had  a  rough 
time  of  it  travelling  about  in  that  rude  land,  and 
falling  ill  he  had  to  leave  his  work  undone.  When 
nearing  his  end  he  came  to  Bath,  like  so  many  other 
afflicted  ones,  only  to  die,  and  he  was  very  properly 
buried  in  the  abbey.  In  his  will  he  left  an  estate 
the  proceeds  of  which  were  to  be:  devoted  to  the 
completion  of  his  work,  which  was  to  be  in  ten  folio 
volumes,  with  one  hundred  plates  in  each.  This  was 
done  and  the  work  finished  forty-four  years  after  his 
death,  when  thirty  copies  were  issued  to  the  patient 
subscribers  at  two  hundred  and  forty  guineas  a  copy. 
But  the  whole  cost  of  the  work  was  set  down  at 
;^30,ooo!  A  costlier  work  it  would  be  hard  to  find; 
I  wonder  how  many  of  us  have  seen  it? 

But  I  must  go  back  to  my  subject.  I  was  not  in 
Bath  just  to  die  and  lie  there,  like  poor  Sibthorpe, 
with  all  those  strange  bedfellows  of  his,  nor  was  I  in 
search  of  a  vacant  space  the  size  of  my  hand  on  the 
walls  to  bespeak  it  for  my  own  memorial.  On  the 
contrary,  I  was  there,  as  we  have  seen,  to  knock  five 
years  off  my  age.  And  it  was  very  pleasant,  as  I 
have  said,  so  long  as  I  confined  my  attention  to  Bath, 
the  stone-built  town  of  old  memories  and  associa- 
tions— so  long    as    I    was    satisfied  to  loiter  in  the 

167 


Afoot  in  England 

streets  and  wide  green  places  and  in  the  Pump  Room 
and  the  abbey.  The  bitter  came  in  only  when, 
going  from  places  to  faces,  I  began  to  seek  out  the 
friends  and  acquaintances  of  former  days.  The 
familiar  faces  seemed  not  wholly  familiar  now.  A 
change  had  been  wrought;  in  some  cases  a  great 
change,  as  in  that  of  some  weedy  girl  who  had 
blossomed  into  fair  womanhood.  One  could  not 
grieve  at  that;  but  in  the  middle-aged  and  those  who 
were  verging  on  or  past  that  period,  it  was  impossible 
not  to  feel  saddened  at  the  difference.  "I  see  no 
change  in  you,"  is  a  lie  ready  to  the  lips  which  would 
speak  some  pleasing  thing,  but  it  does  not  quite  con- 
vince. Men  are  naturally  brutal,  and  use  no  compli- 
ments to  one  another;  on  the  contrary,  they  do  not 
hesitate  to  make  a  joke  of  wrinkles  and  grey  hairs 
— their  own  and  yours.  "But,  oh,  the  difference" 
when  the  familiar  face,  no  longer  familiar  as  of  old, 
is  a  woman's !  This  Is  no  light  thing  to  her,  and  her 
eyes,  being  preternaturally  keen  In  such  matters,  see 
not  only  the  change  in  you,  but  what  is  infinitely 
sadder,  the  changed  reflection  of  herself.  Your  eyes 
have  revealed  the  shock  you  have  experienced.  You 
cannot  hide  it;  her  heart  is  stabbed  with  a  sudden 
pain,  and  she  Is  filled  with  shame  and  confusion;  and 
the  pain  Is  but  greater  If  her  life  has  glided  smoothly 
— If  she  cannot  appeal  to  your  compassion,  finding  a 
melancholy  relief  in  that  saddest  cry: — 

O  Grief  has  changed  me  since  you  saw  me  last! 

For  not  grief,  nor  sickness,  nor  want,  nor  care,  nor 

i68 


Bath  and  Wells  Revisited 

any  misery  or  calamity  which  men  fear,  Is  her  chief 
enemy.  Time  alone  she  hates  and  fears — Insidious 
Time  who  has  lulled  her  mind  with  pleasant  flatteries 
all  these  years  while  subtly  taking  away  her  most 
valued  possessions,  the  bloom  and  colour,  the  grace, 
the  sparkle,  the  charm  of  other  years. 

Here  is  a  true  and  pretty  little  story,  which  may  or 
may  not  exactly  fit  the  theme,  but  Is  very  well  worth 
telling.  A  lady  of  fashion,  middle-aged  or  there- 
abouts, good-looking  but  pale  and  with  the  marks  of 
care  and  disillusionment  on  her  expressive  face,  ac- 
companied by  her  pretty  sixteen-years-old  daughter, 
one  day  called  on  an  artist  and  asked  him  to  show  her 
his  studio.  He  was  a  very  great  artist,  the  greatest 
portrait-painter  we  have  ever  had  and  he  did  not 
know  who  she  was,  but  with  the  sweet  courtesy  which 
distinguished  him  through  all  his  long  life — he  died 
recently  at  a  very  advanced  age — he  at  once  put  his 
work  away  and  took  her  round  his  studio  to  show 
her  everything  he  thought  would  interest  her.  But 
she  was  restless  and  Inattentive,  and  by  and  by  leaving 
the  artist  talking  to  her  young  daughter  she  began 
going  round  by  herself,  moving  constantly  from  pic- 
ture to  picture.  Presently  she  made  an  exclamation, 
and  turning  they  saw  her  standing  before  a  picture,  a 
portrait  of  a  girl,  staring  fixedly  at  It.  *'0h,"  she 
cried,  and  It  was  a  cry  of  pain,  "was  I  once  as  beauti- 
ful as  that?"  and  burst  into  tears.  She  had  found 
the  picture  she  had  been  looking  for,  which  she  had 
come  to  see;  It  had  been  there  twenty  to  twenty-five 
years,  and  the  story  of  it  was  as  follows. 

169 


Afoot  in  England 

When  she  was  a  young  girl  her  mother  took  her  to 
the  great  artist  to  have  her  portrait  painted,  and  when 
the  work  was  at  length  finished  she  and  her  mother 
went  to  see  it.  The  artist  put  it  before  them  and  the 
mother  looked  at  it,  her  face  expressing  displeasure, 
and  said  not  one  word.  Nor  did  the  artist  open  his 
lips.  And  at  last  the  girl,  to  break  the  uncomfortable 
silence,  said,  "Where  shall  we  hang  it,  mother?"  and 
the  lady  replied,  "Just  where  you  like,  my  dear,  so 
long  as  you  hang  it  with  the  face  to  the  wall."  It 
was  an  insolent,  a  cruel  thing  to  say,  but  the  artist 
did  not  answer  her  bitterly;  he  said  gently  that  she 
need  not  take  the  portrait  as  it  failed  to  please  her, 
and  that  in  any  case  he  would  decline  to  take  the 
money  she  had  agreed  to  pay  him  for  the  work.  She 
thanked  him  coldly  and  went  her  way,  and  he  never 
saw  her  again.  And  now  Time,  the  humbler  of 
proud  beautiful  women,  had  given  him  his  revenge: 
the  portrait,  scorned  and  rejected  when  the  colour 
and  sparkle  of  Hfe  was  in  the  face,  had  been  looked 
on  once  more  by  its  subject  and  had  caused  her  to 
weep  at  the  change  in  herself. 

To  return.  One  wishes  in  these  moments  of  meet- 
ing, of  surprise  and  sudden  revealings,  that  it  were 
permissible  to  speak  from  the  heart,  since  then  the 
very  truth  might  have  more  balm  than  bitterness  In 
it.  "Grieve  not,  dear  friend  of  old  days,  that  I  have 
not  escaped  the  Illusion  common  to  all — the  idea  that 
those  we  have  not  looked  on  this  long  time — full  five 
years,  let  us  say — ^have  remained  as  they  were  while 
we  ourselves  have  been  moving  onwards  and  down- 

170 


Bath  and  Wells  Revisited 

wards  In  that  path  in  which  our  feet  are  set.  No  one, 
however  hardened  he  may  be,  can  escape  a  shock  of 
surprise  and  pain;  but  now  the  illusion  I  cherished 
has  gone — now  I  have  seen  with  my  physical  eyes, 
and  a  new  image,  with  Time's  writing  on  it,  has 
taken  the  place  of  the  old  and  brighter  one,  I  would 
not  have  it  otherwise.  No,  not  if  I  could  would  I 
call  back  the  vanished  lustre,  since  all  these  changes, 
above  all  that  wistful  look  in  the  eyes,  do  but  serve 
to  make  you  dearer,  my  sister  and  friend  and  fellow- 
traveller  in  a  land  where  we  cannot  find  a  permanent 
resting-place." 

Alas!  it  cannot  be  spoken,  and  we  cannot  comfort 
a  sister  if  she  cannot  divine  the  thought;  but  to 
brood  over  these  inevitable  changes  is  as  idle  as  it  is 
to  lament  that  we  were  born  into  this  mutable  world. 
After  all,  it  is  because  of  the  losses,  the  sadnesses,  that 
the  world  is  so  Infinitely  sweet  to  us.  The  thought 
is  in  Cory's  Mimnernus  in  Church:—* 

All  beauteous  things  for  which  we  live 
By  laws  of  time  and  space  decay. 
But  oh,  the  very  reason  why 
I  clasp  them  is  because  they  die. 

From  this  sadness  In  Bath  I  went  to  a  greater  In 
Wells,  where  I  had  not  been  for  ten  years,  and  timing 
my  visit  so  as  to  have  a  Sunday  service  at  the  cathe- 
dral of  beautiful  memories,  I  went  on  a  Saturday  to 
Shepton  Mallet.  A  small,  squalid  town,  a  "manu- 
facturing town"  the  guide-book  calls  it.  Well,  yes; 
it  manufactures  Anglo-Bavarian  beer  in   a   gigantic 

171 


Afoot  in  England 

brewery  which  looks  bigger  than  all  the  other  build- 
ings together,  the  church  and  a  dozen  or  twenty 
public-houses  included.  To  get  some  food  I  went 
to  the  only  eating-house  in  the  place,  and  saw  a 
pleasant-looking  woman,  plump  and  high-coloured, 
with  black  hair,  with  an  expression  of  good  humour 
and  goodness  of  every  description  in  her  comely 
countenance.  She  promised  to  have  a  chop  ready 
by  the  time  I  had  finished  looking  at  the  church,  and 
I  said  I  would  have  it  with  a  small  Guinness.  She 
could  not  provide  that^  the  house,  she  said,  was  strictly 
temperance.  "My  doctor  has  ordered  me  to  take 
it,"  said  I,  "and  if  you  are  religious,  remember  that 
St.  Paul  tells  us  to  take  a  little  stout  when  we  find  it 
beneficial." 

"Yes,  I  know  that's  what  St.  Paul  says,"  she  re- 
turned, with  a  heightened  colour  and  a  vicious 
emphasis  on  the  saint's  name,  "but  we  go  on  a 
different  principle." 

So  I  had  to  go  for  my  lunch  to  one  of  the  big 
public-houses,  called  hotels;  but  whether  it  called 
itself  a  cow,  or  horse,  or  stag,  or  angel,  or  a  blue  or 
green  something,  I  cannot  remember.  They  gave 
me  what  they  called  a  beefsteak  pie — a  tough  crust 
and  under  it  some  blackish  cubes  carved  out  of  the 
muscle  of  an  antediluvian  ox — ^and  for  this  delicious 
fare  and  a  glass  of  stout  I  paid  three  shillings  and 
odd  pence. 

As  I  came  away  Shepton  Mallet  was  shaken  to  its 
foundations  by  a  tremendous  and  most  diabolical 
sound,    a    prolonged   lupine   yell    or   yowl,    as    if    a 

172 


Bath  and  Wells  Revisited 

stupendous  wolf,  as  big,  say,  as  the  Anglo-Bavarian 
brewery,  had  howled  his  loudest  and  longest.  This 
infernal  row,  which  makes  Shepton  seem  like  a  town 
or  village  gone  raving  mad,  was  merely  to  inform  the 
men,  and,  incidentally,  the  universe,  that  it  was  time 
for  them  to  knock  off  work. 

Turning  my  back  on  the  place,  I  said  to  myself, 
''What  a  fool  I  am  to  be  sure!  Why  could  I  not 
have  been  satisfied  for  once  with  a  cup  of  coffee  with 
my  lunch?  I  should  have  saved  a  shilling,  perhaps 
eighteenpence,  to  rejoice  the  soul  of  sorne  poor 
tramp;  and,  better  still,  I  could  have  discussed  some 
interesting  questions  with  that  charming  rosy-faced 
woman.  What,  for  instance,  was  the  reason  of  her 
quarrel  with  the  apostle;  by  the  by,  she  never  re- 
buked me  for  misquoting  his  words;  and  what  is  the 
moral  effect  (as  seen  through  her  clear  brown  eyes) 
of  the  Anglo-Bavarian  brewery  on  the  population  of 
the  small  town  and  the  neighbouring  villages?" 

The  road  I  followed  from  Shepton  to  Wells 
winds  by  the  water-side,  a  tributary  of  the  Brue,  in 
a  narrow  valley  with  hills  on  either  side.  It  is  a  five- 
mile  road  through  a  beautiful  country,  where  there  is 
practically  no  cultivation,  and  the  green  hills,  with 
brown  woods  in  their  hollows,  and  here  and  there 
huge  masses  of  grey  and  reddish  Bath  stone  cropping 
out  on  their  sides,  resembling  gigantic  castles  and  ram- 
parts, long  ruined  and  overgrown  with  ivy  and  bram- 
ble, produce  the  effect  of  a  land  dispeopled  and  gone 
back  to  a  state  of  wildness. 

A  thaw  had  come  that  morning,  ending  the  severest 

173 


Afoot  in  England 

frost  experienced  this  winter  anywhere  in  England, 
and  the  valley  was  alive  with  birds,  happy  and  tune- 
ful at  the  end  of  January  as  in  April.  Looking 
down  on  the  stream  the  sudden  glory  of  a  kingfisher 
passed  before  me;  but  the  sooty-brown  water-ouzel 
with  his  white  bib,  a  haunter,  too,  of  this  water,  I 
did  not  see.  Within  a  mile  or  so  of  Wells  I  over- 
took a  small  boy  who  belonged  there,  and  had  been 
to  Shepton  like  me,  noticing  the  birds.  "I  saw  a 
kingfisher,"  I  said.  *'So  did  I,"  he  returned  quickly, 
with  pride.  He  described  it  as  a  biggish  bird  with  a 
long  neck,  but  its  colour  was  not  blue — oh,  no !  I 
suggested  that  it  was  a  heron,  a  long-necked  creature 
under  six  feet  high,  of  no  particular  colour.  No,  it 
was  not  a  heron;  and  after  taking  thought,  he  said, 
"I  think  it  was  a  wild  duck." 

Bestowing  a  penny  to  encourage  him  in  his  promis- 
ing researches  into  the  feathered  world,  I  went  on  by 
a  footpath  over  a  hill,  and  as  I  mounted  to  the  higher 
ground  there  before  me  rose  the  noble  tower  of  St. 
Cuthbert's  Church,  and  a  little  to  the  right  of  it,  girt 
with  high  trees,  the  magnificent  pile  of  the  cathedral, 
with  green  hills  and  the  pale  sky  beyond.  O  joy  to 
look  again  on  it,  to  add  yet  one  more  enduring  image 
of  it  to  the  number  I  had  long  treasured!  For  the 
others  were  not  exactly  like  this  one;  the  building 
was  not  looked  at  from  the  same  point  of  view  at  the 
same  season  and  late  hour,  with  the  green  hills  lit 
by  the  departing  sun  and  the  clear  pale  winter  sky 
beyond. 

Coming  in  by  the  moated  palace  I  stood  once  more 

174 


Bath  and  Wells  Revisited 

on  the  Green  before  that  west  front,  beautiful  beyond 
all  others,  in  spite  of  the  strange  defeatures  Time  has 
written  on  it.  I  watched  the  daws,  numerous  as 
ever,  still  at  their  old  mad  games,  now  springing  into 
the  air  to  scatter  abroad  with  ringing  cries,  only  to 
return  the  next  minute  and  fling  themselves  back  on 
their  old  perches  on  a  hundred  weather-stained  broken 
statues  in  the  niches.  And  while  I  stood  watching 
them  from  the  palace  trees  close  by  came  the  loud 
laugh  of  the  green  woodpecker.  The  same  wild, 
beautiful  sound,  uttered  perhaps  by  the  same  bird, 
which  I  had  often  heard  at  that  spot  ten  years  ago ! 
*'You  will  not  hear  that  woodland  sound  in  any  other 
city  in  the  kingdom,"  I  wrote  in  a  book  of  sketches 
entitled  Birds  and  Man,  published  in  1901. 

But  of  my  soul's  adventures  in  Wells  on  the  two 
or  three  following  days  I  will  say  very  Httle.  That 
laugh  of  the  woodpecker  was  an  assurance  that  Nature 
had  suffered  no  change,  and  the  town  too,  like  the 
hills  and  rocks  and  running  waters,  seemed  un- 
changed; but  how  different  and  how  sad  when  I 
looked  for  those  I  once  knew,  whose  hands  I  had 
hoped  to  grasp  again!  Yes,  some  were  living  still; 
and  a  dog  too,  one  I  used  to  take  out  for  long  walks 
and  many  a  mad  rabbit-hunt — a  very  handsome  white- 
and-liver  coloured  spaniel.  I  found  him  lying  on  a 
sofa,  and  down  he  got  and  wagged  his  tail  vigorously, 
pretending,  with  a  pretty  human  hypocrisy  in  his  gentle 
yellow  eyes,  that  he  knew  me  perfectly  well,  that  I  was 
not  a  bit  changed,  and  that  he  was  delighted  to  see  me. 

On  my  way  back  to  Bath  I  had  a  day  at  Bristol. 

175 


Afoot  in  Kn gland 

It  was  cattle-market  day,  and  what  with  the  bellow- 
ings,  barkings,  and  shoutings,  added  to  the  buzz  and 
clang  of  innumerable  electric  tramcars  and  the  usual 
din  of  street  traffic,  one  got  the  idea  that  the  Bris- 
tolians  had  adopted  a  sort  of  Salvation  Army  theory, 
and  were  endeavouring  to  conquer  earth  (it  is  not 
heaven  in  this  case)  by  making  a  tremendous  noise. 
I  amused  myself  strolling  about  and  watching  the 
people,  and  as  train  after  train  came  in  late  in  the 
day  discharging  loads  of  humanity,  mostly  young 
men  and  women  from  the  surrounding  country  com- 
ing in  for  an  evening's  amusement,  I  noticed  again 
the  peculiarly  Welsh  character  of  the  Somerset  peasant 
— the  shape  of  the  face,  the  colour  of  the  skin,  and, 
above  all,  the  expression. 

Freeman,  when  here  below,  proclaimed  it  his  mis- 
sion to  prove  that  ^'Englishmen  were  Englishmen, 
and  not  somebody  else."  It  appeared  to  me  that  any 
person,  unbiassed  by  theories  on  such  a  subject,  look- 
ing at  that  crowd,  would  have  come  to  the  conclusion, 
sadly  or  gladly,  according  to  his  nature,  that  we  are, 
in  fact,  "somebody  else/' 


176 


Chapter  Fourteen:    The  Return  of 
the  Native 

That  "going  back."  about  which  I  wrote  In  the  second 
chapter  to  a  place  where  an  unexpected  beauty  or 
charm  has  revealed  itself,  and  has  made  its  image  a 
lasting  and  prized  possession  of  the  min^d,  is  not  the 
same  thing  as  the  revisiting  a  famous  town  or  city, 
rich  in  many  beauties  and  old  memories,  such  as  Bath 
or  Wells,  for  instance.  Such  centres  have  a  permanent 
attraction,  and  one  who  is  a  rover  in  the  land  must 
return  to  them  again  and  again,  nor  does  he  fail  on 
each  successive  visit  to  find  some  fresh  charm  or  in- 
terest. The  sadness  of  such  returns,  after  a  long  in- 
terval, is  only,  as  I  have  said,  when  we  start  "looking 
up"  those  with  whom  we  had  formed  pleasant 
friendly  relations.  And  all  because  of  the  illusion 
that  we  shall  see  them  as  they  were — that  Time  has 
stood  still  waiting  for  our  return,  and  by  and  by,  to 
our  surprise  and  grief,  we  discover  that  it  is  not  so; 
that  the  dear  friends  of  other  days,  long  unvisited 
but  unforgotten,  have  become  strangers.  This  hu- 
man loss  is  felt  even  more  in  the  case  of  a  return 
to  some  small  centre,  a  village  or  hamlet  where  we 
knew  every  one,  and  our  intimacy  with  the  people 
has  produced  the  sense  of  being  one  in  blood  with 
them.  It  is  greatest  of  all  when  we  return  to  a  child- 
hood's or  boyhood's  home.  Many  writers  have  occu- 
pied  themselves   with   this  mournful   theme,    and   I 

177 


Afoot  in  England 

imagine  that  a  person  of  the  proper  Amiel-like  tender 
and  melancholy  moralizing  type  of  mind,  by  using 
his  own  and  his  friends'  experiences,  could  write  a 
charmingly  sad  and  pretty  book  on  the  subject. 

The  really  happy  returns  of  this  kind  must  be  ex- 
ceedingly rare.  I  am  almost  surprised  to  think  that 
I  am  able  to  recall  as  many  as  two,  but  they  hardly 
count,  as  in  both  instances  the  departure  or  exile 
from  home  happens  at  so  early  a  time  of  life  that  no 
recollections  of  the  people  survived — nothing,  in  fact, 
but  a  vague  mental  picture  of  the  place.  One  was  of 
a  business  man  I  knew  in  London,  who  lost  his  early 
home  in  a  village  in  the  Midlands,  as  a  boy  of  eight 
or  nine  years  of  age,  through  the  sale  of  the  place  by 
his  father,  who  had  become  impoverished.  The  boy 
was  trained  to  business  in  London,  and  when  a 
middle-aged  man,  wishing  to  retire  and  spend  the  rest 
of  his  life  in  the  country,  he  revisited  his  native 
village  for  the  first  time,  and  dicovered  to  his  joy 
that  he  could  buy  back  the  old  home.  He  was, 
when  I  last  saw  him,  very  happy  in  its  possession. 

The  other  case  I  will  relate  more  fully,  as  it  is  a 
very  curious  one,  and  came  to  my  knowledge  in  a 
singular  way. 

At  a  small  station  near  Eastleigh  a  man  wearing  a 
highly  pleased  expression  on  his  face  entered  the 
smoking-carriage  in  which  I  was  travelling  to  London. 
Putting  his  bag  on  the  rack,  he  pulled  out  his  pipe 
and  threw  himself  back  in  his  seat  with  a  satisfied  air; 
then,  looking  at  me  and  catching  my  eye,  he  at  once 
started  talking.     I  had  my  newspaper,  but  seeing  him 

178 


The  Return  of  the  Native 

in  that  overflowing  mood  I  responded  readily  enough, 
for  I  was  curious  to  know  why  he  appeared  so  happy 
and  who  and  what  he  was.  Not  a  tradesman  nor  a 
bagman,  and  not  a  farmer,  though  he  looked  like  an 
open-air  man;  nor  could  I  form  a  guess  from  his 
speech  and  manner  as  to  his  native  place.  A  robust 
man  of  thirty-eight  or  forty,  with  blue  eyes  and  a 
Saxon  face,  he  looked  a  thorough  Englishman,  and 
yet  he  struck  me  as  most  un-English  in  his  Hvely, 
almost  eager  manner,  his  freedom  with  a  stranger, 
and  something,  too,  in  his  speech.  From  time  to 
time  his  face  lighted  up,  when,  looking  to  the 
window,  his  eyes  rested  on  some  pretty  scene — a 
glimpse  of  stately  old  elm  trees  in  a  field  where  cattle 
were  grazing,  of  the  vivid  green  valley  of  a  chalk 
stream,  the  paler  hills  beyond,  the  grey  church  tower 
or  spire  of  some  tree-hidden  village.  When  he  dis- 
covered that  these  hills  and  streams  and  rustic  villages 
had  as  great  a  charm  for  me  as  for  himself,  that  I 
knew  and  loved  the  two  or  three  places  he  named  in 
a  questioning  way,  he  opened  his  heart  and  the  secret 
of  his  present  happiness. 

He  was  a  native  of  the  district,  born  at  a  farm- 
house of  which  his  father  in  succession  to  his  grand- 
father had  been  the  tenant.  It  was  a  small  farm  of 
only  eighty-five  acres,  and  as  his  father  could  make 
no  more  than  a  bare  livelihood  out  of  It,  he  eventually 
gave  it  up  when  my  Informant  was  but  three  years 
old,  and  selling  all  he  had,  emigrated  to  Australia. 
Nine  years  later  he  died,  leaving  a  numerous  family 
poorly  provided  for;  the  home  was  broken  up  and 

179 


Afoot  in  England 

boys  an,d  girls  had  to  go  out  and  face  the  world. 
They  had   somehow   all  got  on  very  well,   and  his 
brothers   and  sisters  were  happy  enough  out  there, 
Australians  in  mind,  thoroughly  persuaded  that  theirs 
was  the  better  land,  the  best  country  in  the  world, 
and  with  no  desire  to  visit  England.     He  had  never 
felt  like  that;  somehow  his  father's  feeling  about  the 
old  country  had  taken  such  a  hold  of  him  that  he 
never  outlived  it — never  felt  at  home  in  Australia, 
however  successful  he  was  in  his  affairs.     The  home 
feeling  had  been  very  strong  in  his  father;  his  greatest 
delight  was  to   sit  of  an   evening  with  his  children 
round  him  and  tell  them  of  the  farm  and  the  old 
farm-house  where  he  was  born  and  had  lived  so  many 
years,  and  where  some  of  them  too  had  been  born. 
He  was  never  tired  of  talking  of  it,  of  taking  them 
by  the  hand,  as  it  were,  and  leading  them  from  place 
to  place,   to  the   stream,   the  village,   the   old   stone 
church,  the  meadows  and  fields  and  hedges,  the  deep 
shady  lanes,    and,   above   all,   to   the   dear  old  ivied 
house  with  its  gables   and  tall  chimneys.     So  many 
times  had  his  father  described  it  that  the  old  place 
was  printed  like  a  map  on  his  mind,  and  was  like  a 
picture  which  kept  its  brightness  even  after  the  image 
of  his  boyhood's  home  in  Australia  had  become  faded 
and  pale.     With  that  mental  picture  to  guide  him  he 
beheved  that  he  could  go  to  that  angle  by  the  porch 
where  the  flycatchers  bred  every  year  and  find  their 
nest;  where  in  the  hedge  the  blackberries  were  most 
abundant;  where  the  elders  grew  by  the  stream  from 
which  he  could  watch  the  moorhens  and  watervoles; 

i8o 


The  Return  of  the  Native 

that  he  knew  every  fence,  gate,  and  outhouse,  every 
room  and  passage  in  the  old  house.  Through  all  his 
busy  years  that  picture  never  grew  less  beautiful, 
never  cease.d  its  call,  and  at  last,  possessed  of  sufficient 
capital  to  yield  him  a  modest  income  for  the  rest  of 
his  life,  he  came  home.  What  he  was  going  to  do 
in  England  he  did  not  consider.  He  only  knew  that 
until  he  had  satisfied  the  chief  desire  of  his  heart 
and  had  looked  upon  the  original  of  the  picture  he 
had  borne  so  long  in  his  mind  he  could  not  rest  nor 
make  any  plans  for  the  future. 

He  came  first  to  London  and  found,  on  examining 
the  map  of  Hampshire,  that  the  village  of  Thorpe 
(I  will  call  it) ,  where  he  was  born,  is  three  miles  from 
the  nearest  station,  in  the  southern  part  of  the  county. 
Undoubtedly  it  was  Thorpe;  that  was  one  of  the 
few  names  of  places  his  father  had  mentioned  which 
remained  in  his  memory  always  associated  with  that 
vivid  image  of  the  farm  in  his  mind.  To  Thorpe 
he  accordingly  went — as  pretty  a  rustic  village  as  he 
had  hope.d  to  find  it.  He  took  a  room  at  the  inn 
and  went  out  for  a  long  walk — "just  to  see  the 
place,"  he  said  to  the  landlord.  He  would  make  no 
inquiries;  he  would  find  his  home  for  himself;  how 
could  he  fail  to  recognize  it?  But  he  walked  for 
hours  in  a  widening  circle  and  saw  no  farm  or  other 
house,  and  no  ground  that  corresponded  to  the  pic- 
ture in  his  brain. 

Troubled  at  his  failure,  he  went  back  and  questioned 
his  landlord,  and,  naturally,  was  asked  for  the  name 
of  the  farm  he  was  seeking.     He  had  forgotten  the 

i8i 


Afoot  in  England 

name — he  even  doubted  that  he  had  ever  heard  it. 
But  there  was  his  family  name  to  go  by — Dyson; 
did  any  one  remember  a  farmer  Dyson  in  the  village? 
He  was  told  that  it  was  not  an  uncommon  name  in 
that  part  of  the  country.  There  were  no  Dysons 
now  in  Thorpe,  but  some  fifteen  or  twenty  years  ago 
one  of  that  name  had  been  the  tenant  of  Long 
Meadow  Farm  in  the  parish.  The  name  of  the  farm 
was  unfamiliar,  and  when  he  visited  the  place  he 
found  it  was  not  the  one  he  sought. 

It  was  a  grievous  disappointment.  A  new  sense 
of  loneliness  oppressed  him;  for  that  bright  image 
in  his  mind,  with  the  feeling  about  his  home,  had 
been  a  secret  source  of  comfort  and  happiness,  and 
was  like  a  companion,  a  dear  human  friend,  and  now 
he  appeared  to  be  on  the  point  of  losing  it.  Could 
it  be  that  all  that  mental  picture,  with  the  details  that 
seemed  so  true  to  life,  was  purely  imaginary?  He 
could  not  believe  it;  the  old  house  had  probably 
been  pulled  down,  the  big  trees  felled,  orchard  and 
hedges  grubbed  up — all  the  old  features  obliterated — 
and  the  land  thrown  into  some  larger  neighbouring 
farm.  It  was  dreadful  to  think  that  such  devastating 
changes  had  been  made,  but  it  had  certainly  existed 
as  he  saw  it  in  his  mind,  and  he  would  inquire  of 
some  of  the  old  men  in  the  place,  who  would  perhaps 
be  able  to  tell  him  where  his  home  had  stood  thirty 
years  ago. 

At  once  he  set  about  interviewing  all  the  old  men 
he  came  upon  in  his  rounds,  describing  to  them  the 
farm  tenanted  by  a  man  named  Dyson  about  forty 

182 


The  Return  of  the  Native 

years  ago,  and  by  and  by  he  got  hold  of  one  who  knew. 
He  listened  for  a  few  minutes  to  the  oft-repeated 
story,  then  exclaimed,  *'Why,  sir,  'tis  surely  Woodyates 
5^ou  be  talking  about!" 

"That's  the  name!  That's  the  name,"  he  cried. 
^'Woodyates — how  did  I  ever  forget  It!  You  knew 
it  then — where  was  it?" 

"I'll  just  show  you,"  said  the  old  man,  proud  at 
having  guessed  rightly,  and  turning  started  slowly 
hobbling  along  till  he  got  to  the  end  of  the  lane. 

There  was  an  opening  there  and  a  view  of  the  valley 
with  trees,  blue  In  the  distance,  at  the  furthest  visible 
point.  "Do  you  see  them  trees?"  he  said.  "That's 
where  Harping  is;  'tis  two  miles  or,  perhaps,  a  little 
more  from  Thorpe.  There's  a  church  tower  among 
them  trees,  but  you  can't  see  it  because  'tis  hid.  You 
go  by  the  road  till  you  comes  to  the  church,  then  you 
go  on  by  the  water,  maybe  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  and 
you  comes  to  Woodyates.  You  won't  see  no  differ- 
ence in  it;  I've  knowed  it  since  I  were  a  boy,  but  'tis 
in  Harping  parish,  not  in  Thorpe." 

Now  he  remembered  the  name — Harping,  near 
Thorpe — only  Thorpe  was  the  more  important  village 
where  the  inn  was  and  the  shops. 

In  less  than  an  hour  after  leaving  his  informant  he 
was  at  Woodyates,  feasting  his  eyes  on  the  old  house 
of  his  dreams  and  of  his  exiled  father's  before  him, 
inexpressibly  glad  to  recognize  it  as  the  very  house  he 
had  loved  so  long — that  he  had  been  deceived  by  no 
false  image. 

For  some  days  he  haunted  the  spot,  then  became  a 

183 


Afoot  in  Rn gland 

lodger  at  the  farm-house,  and  now  after  making  some 
inquiries  he  had  found  that  the  owner  was  willing  to 
sell  the  place  for  something  more  than  its  market 
value,  and  he  was  going  up  to  London  about  it. 

At  Waterloo  I  wished  him  happiness  in  his  old 
home  found  again  after  so  many  years,  then  watched 
him  as  he  walked  briskly  away — as  commonplace- 
looking  a  man  as  could  be  seen  on  that  busy  crowded 
platform,  in  his  suit  of  rough  grey  tweeds,  thick 
boots,  and  bowler  hat.  Yet  one  whose  fortune  might 
be  envied  by  many  even  among  the  successful — one 
who  had  cherished  a  secret  thought  and  feeling,  which 
had  been  to  him  Hke  the  shadow  of  a  rock  and  like  a 
cool  spring  in  a  dry  and  thirsty  land. 

And  in  that  host  of  undistinguished  Colonials  and 
others  of 'British  race  from  all  regions  of  the  earth, 
who  annually  visit  these  shores  on  business  or  for 
pleasure  or  some  other  object,  how  many  there  must 
be  who  come  with  some  such  memory  or  dream  or 
aspiration  in  their  hearts !  A  greater  number  probably 
than  we  imagine.  For  most  of  them  there  is  doubt- 
less disappointment  and  disillusion:  it  is  a  matter  of 
the  heart,  a  sentiment  about  which  some  are  not  given 
to  speak.  He  too,  my  fellow-passenger,  would  no 
doubt  have  held  his  peace  had  his  dream  not  met  with 
so  perfect  a  fulfilment.  As  it  was  he  had  to  tell  his 
joy  to  some  one,  though  it  were  to  a  stranger. 


Chapter  Fifteen:  Summer  Days 
on  the  Otter 

The  most  characteristic  district  of  South  Devon,  the 
greenest,  most  luxuriant  in  its  vegetation,  and  per- 
haps the  hottest  in  England,  is  that  bit  of  country 
between  the  Exe  and  the  Axe  which  is  watered  by 
the  Clyst,  the  Otter,  and  the  Sid.  In  any  one  of  a 
dozen  villages  found  beside  these  pretty  little  rivers  a 
man  might  spend  a  month,  a  year,  a  lifetime,  very 
agreeably,  ceasing  not  to  congratulate  himself  on  the 
good  fortune  which  first  led  him  into  such  a  garden. 
Yet  after  a  week  or  two  in  this  luxurious  land  I  be- 
gan to  be  dissatisfied  with  ^ny  surroundings.  It  was 
June;  the  weather  was  exceptionally  dry  and  sultry. 
Vague  thoughts,  or  'Visitings"  of  mountains  and  moors 
and  coasts  would  intrude  to  make  the  confinement  of 
deep  lanes  seem  increasingly  irksome.  Each  day  I 
wandered  miles  in  some  new  direction,  never  knowing 
whither  the  devious  path  would  lead  me,  never  in- 
quiring of  any  person,  nor  consulting  map  or  guide, 
since  to  do  that  is  to  deprive  oneself  of  the  pleasure 
of  discovery;  always  with  a  secret  wish  to  find  some 
exit  as  it  were — some  place  beyond  the  everlasting  wall 
of  high  hedges  and  green  trees,  where  there  would  be  a 
wide  horizon  and  wind  blowing  unobstructed  over 
leagues  of  open  country  to  bring  me  back  the  sense  of 
lost  Hberty.  I  found  only  fresh  woods  and  pastures 
new  that  were  like  the  old ;  other  lanes  leading  to  other 

185 


Afoot  in  England 

farm-houses,  each  in  its  familiar  pretty  setting  of  or- 
chard and  garden;  and,  finally,  other  ancient  villages, 
each  with  its  ivy-grown  grey  church  tower  look- 
ing down  on  a  green  graveyard  and  scattered 
cottages,  mostly  mud-built  and  thatched  with  straw. 
Finding  no  outlook  on  any  side  I  went  back  to  the 
streams,  oftenest  to  the  Otter,  where,  lying  by  the  hour 
on  the  bank,  I  watched  the  speckled  trout  below  me 
and  the  dark-plumaged  dipper  with  shining  white 
breast  standing  solitary  and  curtseying  on  a  stone 
in  the  middle  of  the  current.  Sometimes  a  kingfisher 
would  flash  by,  and  occasionally  I  came  upon  a  lonely 
grey  heron;  but  no  mammal  bigger  than  a»  water- 
vole  appeared,  although  I  waited  and  watched  for  the 
much  bigger  beast  that  gives  the  river  its  name. 
Still  it  was  good  to  know  that  he  was  there,  and  had 
his  den  somewhere  in  the  steep  rocky  bank  under  the 
rough  tangle  of  ivy  and  bramble  and  roots  of  over- 
hanging trees.  One  was  shot  by  a  farmer  during  my 
stay,  but  my  desire  was  for  the  living,  not  a  dead 
otter.  Consequently,  when  the  otter-hunt  came  with 
blaze  of  scarlet  coats  and  blowing  of  brass  horns  and 
noise  of  barking  hounds  and  shouts  of  excited  people, 
it  had  no  sooner  got  half  a  mile  above  Ottery  St. 
Mary,  where  I  had  joined  the  straggling  procession, 
than,  falHng  behind,  the  hunting  fury  died  out  of  me 
and  I  was  relieved  to  hear  that  no  quarry  had  been 
found.  The  frightened  moorhen  stole  back  to  her 
spotty  eggs,  the  dipper  returned  to  his  dipping  and 
curtseying  to  his  own  image  in  the  stream,  and  I  to 
my  idle  dreaming  and  watching. 

i86 


Summer  Days  on  the  Otter 

The  watching  was  not  wholly  in  vain,  since  there 
were  here  revealed  to  me  things,  or  aspects  of  things, 
that  were  new.  A  great  deal  depends  on  atmosphere 
and  the  angle  of  vision.  For  instance,  I  have  often 
looked  at  swans  at  the  hour  of  sunset,  on  the  water 
and  off  it,  or  flying,  and  have  frequently  had  them 
between  me  and  the  level  sun,  yet  never  have  I  been 
favoured  with  the  sight  of  the  rose-coloured,  the  red, 
and  the  golden-yellow  varieties  of  that  majestic  water- 
fowl, whose  natural  colour  is  white.  On  the  other 
hand,  who  ever  saw  a  carrion-crow  with  crimson 
eyes?  Yet  that  was  one  of  the  strange  things  I  wit- 
nessed on  the  Otter. 

Game  is  not  everywhere  strictly  preserved  in  that 
part  of  Devon,  and  the  result  is  that  the  crow  is  not 
so  abhorred  and  persecuted  a  fowl  as  in  many  places, 
especially  in  the  home  counties,  where  the  cult  of  the 
sacred  bird  is  almost  universal.  At  one  spot  on  the 
stream  where  my  rambles  took  me  on  most  days  a 
pair  of  crows  invariably  greeted  my  approach  with 
a  loud  harsh  remonstrance,  and  would  keep  near  me, 
flying  from  tree  to  tree  repeating  their  angry  girdings 
until  I  left  the  place.  Their  nest  was  in  a  large  elm, 
and  after  some  days  I  was  pleased  to  see  that  the 
young  had  been  safely  brought  off.  The  old  birds 
screamed  at  me  no  more;  then  I  came  on  one  of 
their  young  in  the  meadow  near  the  river.  His 
curious  behaviour  interested  me  so  much  that  I  stood 
and  watched  him  for  half  an  hour  or  longer.  It  was 
a  hot,  windless  day,  and  the  bird  was  by  himself 
among  the   tall  flowering  grasses  and  buttercups  of 

187 


Afoot  in  England 

the  meadow — a  queer  gaunt  unfinished  hobbledehoy- 
looking  fowl  with  a  head  much  too  big  for  his  body, 
a  beak  that  resembled  a  huge  nose,  and  a  very  mon- 
strous mouth.  When  I  first  noticed  him  he  was 
amusing  himself  by  picking  off  the  small  insects  from 
the  flowers  with  his  big  beak,  a  most  unsuitable 
instrument,  one  would  imagine,  for  so  delicate  a  task. 
At  the  same  time  he  was  hungering  for  more  sub- 
stantial fare,  and  every  time  a  rook  flew  by  over  him 
on  its  way  to  or  from  a  neighbouring  too  populous 
rookery,  the  young  crow  would  open  wide  his  im- 
mense red  mouth  and  emit  his  harsh,  throaty  hunger- 
call.  The  rook  gone,  he  would  drop  once  more  into 
his  study  of  the  buttercups,  to  pick  from  them  what- 
ever unconsidered  trifle  in  the  way  of  provender 
he  could  find.  Once  a  small  bird,  a  pied  wagtail, 
flew  near  him,  and  he  begged  from  it  just  as  he  had 
done  from  the  rooks:  the  little  creature  would  have 
run  the  risk  of  being  itself  swallowed  had  it  attempted 
to  deliver  a  packet  of  flies  into  that  cavernous  mouth. 
I  went  nearer,  moving  cautiously,  until  I  was  within* 
about  four  yards  of  him,  when,  half  turning,  he 
opened  his  mouth  and  squawked,  actually  asking  me  to 
feed  him;  then,  growing  suspicious,  he  hopped  awk- 
wardly away  in  the  grass.  Eventually  he  permitted  a 
nearer  approach,  and  slowly  stooping  I  was  just  on  the 
point  of  stroking  his  back  when,  suddenly  becoming 
alarmed,  he  swung  himself  into  the  air  and  flapped 
laboriously  off  to  a  low  hawthorn,  twenty  or  thirty 
yards  away,  into  which  he  tumbled  pell-mell  like  a 
bundle  of  old  black  rags. 

i88 


Summer  Days  on  the  Otter 

Then  I  left  him  and  thought  no  more  about  the 
crows  except  that  their  young  have  a  good  deal  to 
learn  upon  first  coming  forth  into  an  unfriendly 
world.  But  there  was  a  second  nest  and  family  close 
by  all  the  time.  A  day  or  two  later  I  discovered  it 
accidentally  in  a  very  curious  way. 

There  was  one  spot  where  I  was  accustomed  to 
linger  for  a  few  minutes,  sometimes  for  half  an  hour 
or  so,  during  my  daily  walks.  Here  at  the  foot  of 
the  low  bank  on  the  treeless  side  of  the  stream  there 
was  a  scanty  patch  of  sedges,  a  most  exposed  and 
unsuitable  place  for  any  bird  to  breed  in,  yet  a 
venturesome  moorhen  had  her  nest  there  and  was 
now  sitting  on  seven  eggs.  First  I  would  take  a 
peep  at  the  eggs,  for  the  bird  always  quitted  the 
nest  on  my  approach;  then  I  would  gaze  into  the 
dense  tangle  of  tree,  bramble,  and  ivy  springing  out 
of  the  mass  of  black  rock  and  red  clay  of  the 
opposite  bank.  In  the  centre  of  this  rough  tangle 
which  overhung  the  stream  there  grew  an  old 
stunted  and  crooked  fir  tree  with  its  tufted  top  so 
shut  out  from  the  light  by  the  branches  and  foliage 
round  it  that  it  looked  almost  black.  One  evening 
I  sat  down  on  the  green  bank  opposite  this  tangle 
when  the  low  sun  behind  me  shone  level  into  the 
mass  of  rock  and  rough  boles  and  branches,  and 
fixing  my  eyes  on  the  black  centre  of  the  mass  I 
encountered  a  pair  of  cfrimson  eyes  staring  back 
into  mine.  A  level  ray  of  light  had  lit  up  that 
spot  which  I  had  always  seen  in  deep  shadow,  reveal- 
ing its  secret.     After  gazing  steadily  for  some  time 

189 


Afoot  in  England 

I  made  out  a  crow's  nest  in  the  dwarf  pine  top  and 
the  vague  black  forms  of  three  young  fully  fledged 
crows  sitting  or  standing  in  it.  The.  middle  bird 
had  the  shining  crimson  eyes;  but  in  a  few  moments 
the  illusory  colour  was  gone  and  the  eyes  were  black. 

It  was  certainly  an  extraordinary  thing:  the  ragged- 
looking  black-plumaged  bird  on  its  ragged  nest  of 
sticks  in  the  deep  shade,  with  one  ray  of  intense  sun- 
Hght  on  its  huge  nose-like  beak  and  blood-red  eyes,  a 
sight  to  be  remembered  for  a  lifetime!  It  recalled 
Zurbaran's  picture  of  the  "Kneeling  Monk,"  in  which 
the  man  with  everything  about  him  is  steeped  in  the 
deepest  gloom  except  his  nose,  on  which  one  ray  of 
strong  hght  has  fallen.  The  picture  of  the  monk  is 
gloomy  and  austere  in  a  wonderful  degree:  the  crow 
in  his  interior  with  sunlit  big  beak  and  crimson  eyes 
looked  nothing  less  than  diabolical. 

I  paid  other  visits  to  the  spot  at  the  same  hour, 
and  sat  long  and  watched  the  crows  while  they  watched 
me,  occasionally  tossing  pebbles  on  to  them  to  make 
them  shift  their  positions,  but  the  magical  effect  was 
not  produced  again. 

As  to  the  cause  of  that  extraordinary  colour  in 
the  crow's  eyes,  one  might  say  that  it  was  merely 
the  reflected  red  light  of  the  level  sun.  We  are 
famihar  with  the  effect  when  polished  and  wet  sur- 
faces, such  as  glass,  stone,  and  water,  shine  crimson  in 
the  Hght  of  a  setting  sun;  but  there  is  also  the 
fact,  which  is  not  well  known,  that  the  eye  may 
show  its  own  hidden  red — the  crimson  colour  which 
is  at  the  back  of  the  retina  and  which  is  commonly 

190 


Summer  Days  on  the  Otter 

supposed  to  be  seen  only  with  the  ophthalmoscope. 
Nevertheless  I  find  on  inquiry  among  friends  and 
acquaintances  that  there  are  instances  of  persons  in 
which  the  iris  when  directly  in  front  of  the  observer 
with  the  light  behind  him.  always*  looks  crimson,  and 
in  several  of  these  caseS"  the  persons,  exhibiting  this 
coiour,  or-  danger  signal,  as  it  may  be  called,  were 
su'bject  to  brain  trouble.  It  i&  curious  to  find  that 
the  crimson  colour  or  light  has  also  been  observed 
in  dogs:  one  friend  has  told  me  of  a  pet  King 
Charles,  a  lively  good-tempered  little  dog  with  brown 
eyes  like  any  other  dog,  which  yet;  when  they  looked 
up*  into  yours  in  a  room  always  shone  ruby-red 
instead  of  hyaline  blue,  or  green,  as  is  usually  the 
case.  From  other  friends  I  heard  of  many  other 
cases:  one  was  of  a  child,  an  infant  in  arms,  whose 
eyes  sometimes  appeared  crimson,  another  of  a  cat 
with  yellow  eyes  which  shone  crimson-red  in  certain 
lights.  Of  human  adults,  I  heard  of  two  men  great 
in  the  world  of  science,  both  dead  now,  in  whose 
eyes  the  red  light  had  been  seen  just  before  and 
during  attacks  of  nervous  breakdown.  I  heard  also 
of  four  other  persons,  not  distinguished  in  any  way, 
two  of  them  sisters,  who  showed  the  red  light  in 
the  eyes:  all  of  them  suffered  from  brain  trouble 
and  two  of  them  ended  their  lives  in  asylums  for  the 
insane. 

Discussing  these  cases  with  my  informants,  we  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  the  red  light  in  the  human 
eye  is  probably  always  a  pathological  condition,  a 
danger  signal;  but  it  is  not  perhaps  safe  to  generalize 

191 


Afoot  in  England 

on  these  few  instances,  and  I  must  add  that  all  the 
medical  men  I  have  spoken  to  on  the  subject  shake 
their  heads.  One  great  man,  an  eye  specialist,  went 
so  far  as  to  say  that  it  is  impossible,  that  the  red 
light  in  the  eye  was  not  seen  by  my  informants  but 
only  imagined.  The  ophthalmoscope,  he  said,  will 
show  you  the  crimson  at  the  back  of  the  eye,  but 
the  colour  is  not  and  cannot  be  reflected  on  the  sur- 
face of  the  iris. 


192 


Chapter  Sixteen:  In  Praise  of  the 

Cow 

In  spite  of  discontents  I  might  have  remained  to 
this  day  by  the  Otter,  in  the  daily  and  hourly 
expectation  of  seeing  some  new  and  wonderful 
thing  in  Nature  in  that  place  where  a  crimson-eyed 
carrion-crow  had  been  revealed  to  me,  had  not  a 
storm  of  thunder  and  rain  broken  over  the  country 
to  shake  me  out  of  a  growing  disinclination  to  move. 
We  are,  body  and  mind,  very  responsive  to  atmos- 
pheric changes;  for  every  storm  in  Nature  there  is 
a  storm  in  us — a  change  physical  and  mental.  We 
make  our  own  conditions,  it  is  true,  and  these  react 
and  have  a  deadening  effect  on  us  in  the  long  run, 
but  we  are  never  wholly  deadened  by  them — if  we 
be  not  indeed  dead,  if  the  life  we  live  can  be  called 
life.  We  are  told  that  there  are  rainless  zones  on 
the  earth  and  regions  of  everlasting  summer:  it  is  hard 
to  believe  that  the  dwellers  in  such  places  can  ever 
think  a  new  thought  or  do  a  new  thing. 

The  morning  rain  did  not  last  very  long,  and  before 
it  had  quite  ceased  I  took  up  my  knapsack  and  set  off 
towards  the  sea,  determined  on  this  occasion  to  make 
my  escape. 

Three  or  four  miles  from  Ottery  St.  Mary  I  over- 
took a  cowman  driving  nine  milch  cows  along  a  deep 
lane  and  inquired  my  way  of  him.  He  gave  me  many 
and  minute  directions,  after  which  we  got  into  con- 

193 


Afoot  in  England 

versatlon,    and   I    walked   some    distance    with    him. 

The  cows  he  was  driving  were  all  pure  Devons, 
perfect  beauties  in  their  bright  red  coats  in  that  green- 
est place  where  every  rain-wet  leaf  sparkled  in  the  new 
sunlight.  Naturally  we  talked  about  the  cows,  and  I 
soon  found  that  they  were  his  own  and  the  pride  and 
joy  of  his  life.  We  walked  leisurely,  and  as  the  ani- 
mals went  on,  first  one,  then  another  would  stay  for  a 
mouthful  of  grass,  or  to  pull  down  half  a  yard  of  green 
drapery  from  the  hedge.  It  was  so  lavishly  decorated 
that  the  damage  they  did  to  it  was  not  noticeable.  By 
and  by  we  went  on  ahead  of  the  cows,  then,  if  one 
stayed  too  long  or  strayed  into  some  inviting  side-lane, 
he  would  turn  and  utter  a  long,  soft  call,  whereupon 
the  straggler  would  leave  her  browsing  and  hasten 
after  the  others. 

He  was  a  big,  strongly  built  man,  a  little  past 
middle  life  and  grey-haired,  with  rough-hewn  face — 
unprepossessing  one  would  have  pronounced  him  until 
the  intelligent,  kindly  expression  of  the  eyes  was  seen 
and  the  agreeable  voice  was  heard.  As  our  talk  pro- 
gressed and  we  found  how  much  in  sympathy  we  were 
on  the  subject,  I  was  reminded  of  that  Biblical  expres- 
sion about  the  shining  of  a  man's  face:  "Wine  that 
maketh  glad  the  heart  of  man" — I  hope  the  total 
abstainers  will  pardon  me — ''and  oil  that  maketh  his 
face  to  shine,"  we  have  in  one  passage.  This  rather 
goes  against  our  British  ideas,  since  we  rub  no  oil  or 
unguents  on  our  skin,  but  only  soap  which  deprives 
it  of  its  natural  oil  and  too  often  imparts  a  dry 
and  hard  texture.     Yet  in  that,  to  us,  disagreeable 

194 


In  Praise  of  the  Cow 

aspect  of  the  skin  caused  by  foreign  fats,  there  is  a 
resemblance  to  the  sudden  brightening  and  glory  of  the 
countenance  in  moments  of  blissful  emotion  or  exal- 
tation. No  doubt  the  effect  is  produced  by  the  eyes, 
which  are  the  mirrors  of  the  mind,  and  as  they  are 
turned  full  upon  us  they  produce  an  illusion,  seeming  to 
make  the  whole  face  shine. 

In  our  talk  I  told  him  of  long  rambles  on  the  Men- 
dips,  along  the  valley  of  the  Somerset  Axe,  where  I  had 
lately  been,  and  where  of  all  places,  in  this  island,  the 
cow  should  be  most  esteemed  and  loved  by  man.  Yet 
even  there,  where,  standing  on  some  elevation,  cows 
beyond  one's  power  to  number  could  be  seen  scattered 
far  and  wide  in  the  green  vales  beneath,  it  had  sad- 
dened me  to  find  them  so  silent.  It  is  not  natural  for 
them  to  be  dumb ;  they  have  great  emotions  and  mighty 
voices — the  cattle  on  a  thousand  hills.  Their  morning 
and  evening  lowing  is  more  to  me  than  any  other 
natural  sound — the  melody  of  birds,  the  springs  and 
dying  gales  of  the  pines,  the  wash  of  waves  on  the 
long  shingled  beach.  The  hills  and  valleys  of  that 
pastoral  country  flowing  with  milk  and  honey  should 
be  vocal  with  it,  echoing  and  re-echoing  the  long  call 
made  musical  by  distance.  The  cattle  are  compara- 
tively silent  in  that  beautiful  district,  and  indeed  every- 
where in  England,  because  men  have  made  them  so. 
They  have,  when  deprived  of  their  calves,  no  motive 
for  the  exercise  of  their  voices.  For  tw.o  or  three 
days  after  their  new-born  calves  have  been  taken  from 
them  they  call  loudly  and  incessantly,  day  and  night, 
like  Rachel  weeping  for  her  children  and  refusing  to  be 

195 


Afoot  in  England 

comforted;  grief  and  anxiety  inspires  that  cry — they 
grow  hoarse  with  crying;  it  is  a  powerful,  harsh,  dis- 
cordant sound,  unlike  the  long  musical  call  of  the  cow 
that  has  a  calf,  and  remembering  it,  and  leaving  the 
pasture,  goes  lowing  to  give  it  suck. 

I  also  told  him  of  the  cows  of  a  distant  country 
where  I  had  lived,  that  had  the  maternal  instinct  so 
strong  that  they  refused  to  yield  their  milk  when  de- 
prived of  their  young.  They  "held  it  back,"  as  the 
saying  is,  and  were  in  a  sullen  rage,  and  in  a  few  days 
their  fountains  dried  up,  and  there  was  no  more 
milk  until  calving-time  came  round  once  more. 

He  replied  that  cows  of  that  temper  were  not  un- 
known in  South  Devon.  Very  proudly  he  pointed  to 
one  of  the  small  herd  that  followed  us  as  an  example. 
In  most  cases,  he  said,  the  calf  was  left  from  two  or 
three  days  to  a  week,  or  longer,  with  the  mother  to  get 
strong,  and  then  taken  away.  This  plan  could  not  be 
always  followed;  some  cows  were  so  greatly  distressed 
at  losing  the  young  they  had  once  suckled  that  precau- 
tions had  to  be  taken  and  the  calf  smuggled  away  as 
quietly  as  possible  when  dropped — if  possible  before 
the  mother  had  seen  it.  Then  there  were  the  ex- 
treme cases  in  which  the  cow  refused  to  be  cheated. 
She  knew  that  a  calf  had  been  born;  she  had  felt  it 
within  her,  and  had  suffered  pangs  in  bringing  it  forth; 
if  it  appeared  not  on  the  grass  or  straw  at  her  side  then 
it  must  have  been  snatched  away  by  the  human  crea- 
tures that  hovered  about  her,  like  crows  and  ravens 
round  a  ewe  in  travail  on  some  lonely  mountain  side. 

196 


In  Praise  of  the  Cow 

That  was  the  character  of  the  cow  he  had  pointed  out; 
even  when  she  had  not  seen  the  calf  of  which  she  had 
been  deprived  she  made  so  great  an  outcry  and  was 
thrown  into  such  a  rage  and  fever,  refusing  to  be  milked 
that,  finally,  to  save  her,  it  was  thought  necessary 
to  give  her  back  the  calf.  Now,  he  concluded,  it  was 
not  attempted  to  take  it  away :  twice  a  day  she  was  al- 
lowed to  have  it  with  her  and  suckle  it,  and  she  was  a 
very  happy  animal. 

I  was  glad  to  think  that  there  was  at  least  one  com- 
pletely happy  cow  in  Devonshire. 

After  leaving  the  cowkeeper  I  had  that  feeling  of 
revulsion  very  strongly  which  all  who  know  and  love 
cows  occasionally  experience  at  the  very  thought  of 
beef.  I  was  for  the  moment  more  than  tolerant  of 
vegetarianism,  and  devoutly  hoped  that  for  many  days 
to  come  I  should  not  be  sickened  with  the  sight  of  a 
sirloin  on  some  hateful  board,  cold,  or  smoking  hot, 
bleeding  its  red  juices  into  the  dish  when  gashed  with 
a  knife,  as  if  undergoing  a  second  death.  We  do  not 
eat  negroes,  although  their  pigmented  skins,  flat  feet, 
and  woolly  heads  proclaim  them  a  different  species; 
even  monkey's  flesh  is  abhorrent  to  us,  merely  because 
we  fancy  that  that  creature  in  its  ugliness  resembles 
some  old  men  and  some  women  and  children  that  we 
know.  But  the  gentle  large-brained  social  cow  that 
caresses  our  hands  and  faces  with  her  rough  blue 
tongue,  and  is  more  like  man's  sister  than  any  other 
non-human  being — the  majestic,  beautiful  creature 
with  the  juno  eyes,  sweeter  of  breath  than  the  rosiest 

197 


Afoot  in  England 

virgin — we  slaughter  and  feed  on  her  flesh — monsters 
and  cannibals  that  we  are! 

But  though  cannibals,  it  is  very  pleasant  to  find  that 
many  cowmen  love  their  cows.     Walking  one  after- 
noon by  a  high  unkept  hedge  near  Southampton  Water, 
I  heard  loud  shouts  at  intervals  issuing  from  a  point 
some  distance  ahead,  and  on  arriving  at  the  spot  found 
an  old  man  leaning  idly  over  a  gate,  apparently  con- 
cerned   about    nothing.     "What    are    you    shouting 
about?"  I  demanded.        "Cows,"  he  answered,  with 
a  glance  across  the  wide  green  field  dotted  with  a  few 
big  furze  and  bramble  bushes.     On  its  far  side  half 
a   dozen   cows  were  quietly   grazing.     "They  came 
fast  enough  when  I  was  a-feeding  of  'em,"  he  presently 
added;  "but  now  they  has  to  find  for  theirselves  they 
don't  care  how  long  they  keeps  me."     I  was  going 
to  suggest  that  it  would  be  a  considerable  saving  of  time 
if  he  went  for  them,  but  his  air  of  lazy  contentment 
as  he  leant  on  the  gate  showed  that  time  was  of  no 
importance   to  him.     He  was   a   curious-looking  old 
man,  in  old  frayed  clothes,  broken  boots,  and  a  cap 
too  small  for  him.     He  had  short  legs,  broad  chest, 
and  long  arms,  and  a  very  big  head,  long  and  horse- 
like, with  a  large  shapeless  nose  and  grizzled  beard 
and  moustache.     His  ears,  too,  were  enormous,  and 
stood  out  from  the  head  like  the  handles  of  a  rudely 
shaped  terra-cotta  vase  or  jar.     The  colour  of  his 
face,   the  ears  included,   suggested  burnt  clay.     But 
though  Nature  had  made  him  ugly,  he  had  an  agree- 
able expression,  a  sweet  benign  look  in  his  large  dark 
eyes,  which  attracted  me,  and  I  stayed  to  talk  with  him. 

198 


In  Praise  of  the  Cow 

It  has  frequently  been  said  that  those  who  are  much 
with  cows,  and  have  an  affection  for  them,  appear 
to  catch  something  of  their  expression — to  look  like 
cows;  just  as  persons  of  sympathetic  or  responsive 
nature,  and  great  mobility  of  face,  grow  to  be  like 
those  they  live  and  are  in  sympathy  with.  The  cow- 
man who  looks  like  a  cow  may  be  more  bovine  than 
his  fellows  in  his  heavier  motions  and  slower  appre- 
hensions, but  he  also  exhibits  some  of  the  better  quali- 
ties— the  repose  and  placidity  of  the  animal. 

He  said  that  he  was  over  seventy,  and  had  spent  the 
whole  of  his  life  in  the  neighbourhood,  mostly  with 
cows,  and  had  never  been  more  than  a  dozen  miles 
from  the  spot  where  we  were  standing.  At  intervals 
while  we  talked  he  paused  to  utter  one  of  his  long 
shouts,  to  which  the  cows  paid  no  attention.  At 
length  one  of  the  beasts  raised  her  head  and  had  a  long 
look,  then  slowly  crossed  the  field  to  us,  the  others 
following  at  some  distance.  They  were  shorthorns, 
all  but  the  leader,  a  beautiful  young  Devon,  of  a  uni- 
form rich  glossy  red;  but  the  silky  hair  on  the  dis- 
tended udder  was  of  an  intense  chestnut,  and  all  the 
parts  that  were  not  clothed  were  red  too — the  teats, 
the  skin  round  the  eyes,  the  moist  embossed  nose; 
while  the  hoofs  were  like  polished  red  pebbles,  and 
even  the  shapely  horns  were  tinged  with  that  colour. 
Walking  straight  up  to  the  old  man,  she  began  delib- 
erately licking  one  of  his  ears  with  her  big  rough 
tongue,  and  in  doing  so  knocked  off  his  old  rakish  cap. 
Picking  it  up  he  laughed  like  a  child,  and  remarked, 
"She  knows  me,  this  one  does — and  she  loikes  me." 

199 


Chapter  Seventeen:   An  Old  Road 
Leading  Nowhere 

So  many  and  minute  were  the  directions  I  received 
about  the  way  from  the  blessed  cowkeeper,  and  so 
little  attention  did  I  give  them,  my  mind  being  occu- 
pied with  other  things,  that  they  were  quickly  forgotten. 
Of  half  a  hundred  things  I  remembered  only  that  I 
had  to  "bear  to  the  left."  This  I  did,  although  it 
seemed  useless,  seeing  that  my  way  was  by  lanes,  across 
fields,  and  through  plantations.  At  length  I  came  to 
a  road,  and  as  it  happened  to  be  on  my  left  hand  I 
followed  it.  It  was  narrow,  worn  deep  by  traffic  and 
rains ;  and  grew  deeper,  rougher,  and  more  untrodden 
as  I  progressed,  until  it  was  like  the  dry  bed  of  a  moun- 
tain torrent,  and  I  walked  on  boulder-stones  between 
steep  banks  about  fourteen  feet  high.  Their  sides 
were  clothed  with  ferns,  grass  and  rank  moss;  their 
summits  were  thickly  wooded,  and  the  interlacing 
branches  of  the  trees  above,  mingled  with  long  rope- 
like shoots  of  bramble  and  briar,  formed  so  close  a 
roof  that  I  seemed  to  be  walking  in  a  dimly  lighted 
tunnel.  At  length,  thinking  that  I  had  kept  long 
enough  to  a  road  which  had  perhaps  not  been  used  for 
a  century,  also  tired  of  the  monotony  of  always  bear- 
ing to  the  left,  I  scrambled  out  on  the  right-hand  side. 
For  some  time  past  I  had  been  asc.ending  a  low,  broad, 
flat-topped  hill,  and  on  forcing  my  way  through  the 

20O 


An  Old  Road  heading  Nowhere 

undergrowth  into  the  open  I  found  myself  on  the 
level  plateau,  an  unenclosed  spot  overgrown  with 
heather  and  scattered  furze  bushes,  with  clumps  of  fir 
and  birch  trees.  Before  me  and  on  either  hand  at 
this  elevation  a  vast  extent  of  country  was  disclosed. 
The  surface  was  everywhere  broken,  but  there  was  no 
break  in  the  wonderful  greenness,  which  the  recent 
rain  had  intensified.  There  is  too  much  green,  to 
my  thinking,  with  too  much  uniformity  in  its  soft,  bright 
tone,  in  South  Devon.  After  gazing  on  such  a  land- 
scape the  brown,  harsh,  scanty  vegetation  of  the  hill- 
top seemed  all  the  more  grateful.  The  heath  was  an 
oasis  and  a  refuge;  I  rambled  about  in  it  until  my 
feet  and  legs  were  wet;  then  I  sat  down  to  let  them 
dry  and  altogether  spent  several  agreeable  hours  at 
that  spot,  pleased  at  the  thought  that  no  human  fellow- 
creature  would  intrude  upon  me.  Feathered  compan- 
ions were,  however,  not  wanting.  The  crowing  of 
cock  pheasants  from  the  thicket  beside  the  old  road 
warned  me  that  I  was  on  preserved  grounds.  Not 
too  strictly  preserved,  however,  for  there  was  my  old 
friend  the  carrion-crow  out  foraging  for  his  young. 
He  dropped  down  over  the  trees,  swept  past  me,  and 
was  gone.  At  this  season,  in  the  early  summer,  he 
may  be  easily  distinguished,  when  flying,  from  his 
relation  the  rook.  When  on  the  prowl  the  crow  glides 
smoothly  and  rapidly  through  the  air,  often  changing 
his  direction,  now  flying  close  to  the  surface,  anon 
mounting  high,  but  oftenest  keeping  nearly  on  a  level 
with  the  tree  tops.  His  gliding  and  curving  motions 
are  somewhat  like  those  of  the  herring-gull,  but  the 

201 


Afoot  in  England 

wings  in  gliding  are  carried  stiff  and  straight,  the  tips 
of  the  long  flight-feathers  showing  a  slight  upward 
curve.  But  the  greatest  difference  is  in  the  way  the 
head  is  carried.  The  rook,  like  the  heron  and  stork, 
carries  his  beak  pointing  lance-like  straight  before  him. 
He  knows  his  destination,  and  makes  for  it;  he  follows 
his  nose,  so  to  speak,  turning  neither  to  the  right  nor 
the  left.  The  foraging  crow  continually  turns  his 
head,  gull-like  and  harrier-like,  from  side  to  side,  as 
if  to  search  the  ground  thoroughly  or  to  concentrate 
his  vision  on  some  vaguely  seen  object. 

Not  only  the  crow  was  there :  a  magpie  chattered 
as  I  came  from  the  brake,  but  refused  to  show  him- 
self; and  a  little  later  a  jay  screamed  at  me,  as  only  a 
jay  can.  There  are  times  when  I  am  intensely  in 
sympathy  with  the  feeling  expressed  in  this  ear-split- 
ting sound,  inarticulate  but  human.  It  is  at  the  same 
time  warning  and  execration,  the  startled  solitary's 
outburst  of  uncontrolled  rage  at  the  abhorred  sight 
of  a  fellow-being  in  his  woodland  haunt. 

Small  birds  were  numerous  at  that  spot,  as  if  for 
them  also  its  wildness  and  infertility  had  an  attraction. 
Tits,  warblers,  pipits,  finches,  all  were  busy  ranging 
from  place  to  place,  emitting  their  various  notes  now 
from  the  tree-tops,  then  from  near  the  ground;  now 
close  at  hand,  then  far  off;  each  change  in  the  height, 
distance,  and  position  of  the  singer  giving  the  sound 
a  different  character,  so  that  the  effect  produced  was 
one  of  infinite  variety.  Only  the  yellow-hammer  re- 
mained constant  in  one  spot,  in  one  position,  and  the 
song  at  each  repetition  was  the  same.     Nevertheless 

202 


An  Old  Road  heading  Nowhere 

this  bird  is  not  so  monotonous  a  singer  as  he  is  reputed. 
A  lover  of  open  places,  of  commons  and  waste  lands, 
with  a  bush  or  dwarf  tree  for  tower  to  sit  upon,  he  is 
yet  one  of  the  most  common  species  in  the  thickly 
timbered  country  of  the  Otter,  Clyst,  and  Sid,  in  which 
I  had  been  rambling,  hearing  him  every  day  and  all 
day  long.  Throughout  that  district,  where  the  fields 
are  small,  and  the  trees  big  and  near  together,  he  has 
the  cirl-bunting's  habit  of  perching  to  sing  on  the  tops 
of  high  hedgerow  elms  and  oaks. 

By  and  by  I  had  a  better  bird  to  listen  to — a  red- 
start. A  female  flew  down  within  fifteen  yards  of  me ; 
her  mate  followed  and  perched  on  a  dry  twig,  where 
he  remained  a  long  time  for  so  shy  and  restless  a  crea- 
ture. He  was  in  perfect  plumage,  and  sitting  there, 
motionless  in  the  strong  sunlight,  was  wonderfully  con- 
spicuous, the  gayest,  most  exotic-looking  bird  of  his 
family  in  England.  Quitting  his  perch,  he  flew  up  Into 
a  tree  close  by  and  began  singing;  and  for  half  an  hour 
thereafter  I  continued  intently  listening  to  his  brief 
strain,  repeated  at  short  intervals — a  song  which  I 
think  has  never  been  perfectly  described.  "Practice 
makes  perfect"  is  an  axiom  that  does  not  apply  to  the 
art  of  song  in  the  bird  world;  since  the  redstart,  a  mem- 
ber of  a  highly  melodious  family,  with  a  good  voice 
to  start  with,  has  never  attained  to  excellence  In  spite 
of  much  practising.  The  song  is  interesting  both  on 
account  of  its  exceptional  inferiority  and  of  its  char- 
acter. A  distinguished  ornithologist  has  said  that 
little  birds  have  two  ways  of  making  themselves 
attractive — by  melody  and  by  bright  plumage;   and 

203 


Afoot  in  England 

that  most  species  excel  in  one  or  the  other  way;  and 
that  the  acquisition  of  gay  colours  by  a  species  of  a  so- 
ber-coloured melodious  family  will  cause  it  to  degener- 
ate as  a  songster.  He  is  speaking  of  the  redstart. 
Unfortunately  for  the  rule  there  are  too  many  excep- 
tions. Thus  confining  ourselves  to  a  single  family — 
that  of  the  finches — in  our  own  islands,  the  most  mod- 
est coloured  have  the  least  melody,  while  those  that 
have  the  gayest  plumage  are  the  best  singers — the 
goldfinch,  chaflinch,  siskin,  and  linnet.  Nevertheless 
it  is  impossible  to  listen  for  any  length  of  time  to  the 
redstart,  and  to  many  redstarts,  without  feeling,  al- 
most with  irritation,  that  its  strain  is  only  the  prelude 
of  a  song — a  promise  never  performed;  that  once  upon 
a  time  in  the  remote  past  it  was  a  sweet,  copious,  and 
varied  singer,  and  that  only  a  fragment  of  its  melody 
now  remains.  The  opening  rapidly  warbled  notes  are 
so  charming  that  the  attention  is  instantly  attracted  by 
them.  They  are  composed  of  two  sounds,  both  beau- 
tiful— the  bright  pure  gushing  robin-like  note,  and 
the  more  tender  expressive  swallow-like  note.  And 
that  is  all;  the  song  scarcely  begins  before  it  ends,  or 
collapses;  for  in  most  cases  the  pure  sweet  opening 
strain  is  followed  by  a  curious  little  farrago  of  gurg- 
ling and  squeaking  sounds,  and  little  fragments  of 
varied  notes,  often  so  low  as  to  be  audible  only  at  a 
few  yards'  distance.  It  is  curious  that  these  slight 
fragments  of  notes  at  the  end  vary  in  different  individ- 
uals, in  strength  and  character  and  in  number,  from  a 
single  faintest  squeal  to  half  a  dozen  or  a  dozen  dis- 
tinct sounds.     In  all  cases  they  are  emitted  with  ap- 

204 


An  Old  Road  'Leading  Nowhere 

parent  effort,  as  if  the  bird  strained  its  pipe  in  the 
vain  attempt  to  continue  the  song. 

The  statement  that  the  redstart  is  a  mimic  is  to  be 
met  with  in  many  books  about  birds.  I  rather  think 
that  in  jerking  out  these  various  little  broken  notes 
which  end  its  strain,  whether  he  only  squeaks  or  suc- 
ceeds in  producing  a  pure  sound,  he  is  striving  to  re- 
cover his  own  lost  song  rather  than  to  imitate  the  songs 
of  other  birds. 

So  much  entertainment  did  I  find'  at  that  spot,  so 
grateful  did  it  seem  in  its  openness  after  long  con- 
finement in  the  lower  thickly  wooded  country,  that  I 
practically  spent  the  day  there.  At  all  events  the 
best  time  for  walking  was  gone  when  I  quitted  it,  and 
then  I  could  think  of  no  better  plan  than  to  climb  down 
into  the  old  long  untrodden  road,  or  channel,  again 
just  to  see  where  it  would  lead  me.  After  all,  I  said, 
my  time  is  my  own,  and  to  abandon  the  old  way  I 
have  walked  in  so  long  without  discovering  the  end 
would  be  a  mistake.  So  I  went  on  in  it  once 
more,  and  in  about  twenty  minutes  it  came  to  an  end 
before  a  group  of  old  farm  buildings  in  a  hollow  in 
the  woods.  The  space  occupied  by  the  buildings  was 
quite  walled  round  and  shut  in  by  a  dense  growth  of 
trees  and  bushes;  and  there  was  no  soul  there  and  no 
domestic  animal.  The  place  had  apparently  been  va- 
cant many  years,  and  the  buildings  were  in  a  ruinous 
condition,  with  the  roofs  falling  in. 

Now  when  I  look  back  on  that  walk  I  blame  myself 
for  having  gone  on  my  way  without  trying  to  find  out 
something  of  the  history  of  that  forsaken  home  to 

205 


Afoot  in  England 

which  the  lonely  old  road  had  led  me.  Those  ruinous 
buildings  once  inhabited,  so  wrapped  round  and  hidden 
away  by  trees,  have  now  a  strange  look  In  memory  as 
if  they  had  a  story  to  tell,  as  if  something  Intelligent 
had  looked  from  the  vacant  windows  as  I  stood  star- 
ing at  them  and  had  said,  We  have  waited  these  many 
years  for  you  to  come  and  listen  to  our  story  and  you 
are  come  at  last. 

Something  perhaps  stirred  In  me  in  response  to  that 
greeting  and  message,  but  I  failed  to  understand  it, 
and  after  standing  there  awhile,  oppressed  by  a  sense 
of  loneliness,  I  turned  aside,  and  creeping  and  pushing 
through  a  mass  and  tangle  of  vegetation  went  on  my 
way  towards  the  coast. 

Possibly  that  Idea  or  fancy  of  a  story  to  tell,  a 
human  tragedy,  came  to  me  only  because  of  another 
singular  experience  I  had  that  day  when  the  after- 
noon sun  had  grown  oppressively  hot — another  mys- 
tery of  a  desolate  but  not  in  this  case  uninhabited 
house.  The  two  places  somehow  became  associated 
together  in  my  mind. 

The  place  was  a  little  farm-house  standing  some 
distance  from  the  road,  in  a  lonely  spot  out  of  sight 
of  any  other  habitation,  and  I  thought  I  would  call 
and  ask  for  a  glass  of  milk,  thinking  that  if  things 
had  a  promising  look  on  my  arrival  my  modest  glass 
of  milk  would  perhaps  expand  to  a  sumptuous  five- 
o'clock  tea  and  my  short  rest  to  a  long  and  pleasant 
one. 

The  house  I  found  on  coming  nearer  was  small  and 
mean-looking  and  very  old;  the  farm  buildings  in  a 

206 


An  Old  Road  Leading  Nowhere 

dilapidated  condition,  the  thatch  rotten  and  riddled 
with  holes  in  which  many  starlings  and  sparrows  had 
their  nests.  Gates  and  fences  were  broken  down, 
and  the  ground  was  everywhere  overgrown  with  weeds 
and  encumbered  with  old  broken  and  rusty  implements, 
and  littered  with  rubbish.  No  person  could  I  see 
about  the  place,  but  knew  it  was  inhabited  as  there 
were  some  fowls  walking  about,  and  some  calves  shut 
in  a  pen  in  one  of  the  numerous  buildings  were  dole- 
fully calling — calling  to  be  fed.  Seeing  a  door  half 
open  at  one  end  of  the  house  I  went  to  it  and  rapped 
on  the  warped  paintless  wood  with  my  stick,  and  after 
about  a  minute  a  young  woman  came  from  an  inner 
room  and  asked  me  what  I  wanted.  She  was  not 
disturbed  or  surprised  at  my  sudden  appearance  there: 
her  face  was  impassive,  and  her  eyes  when  they  met 
mine  appeared  to  look  not  at  me  but  at  something 
distant,  and  her  words  were  spoken  mechanically. 

I  said  that  I  was  hot  and  thirsty  and  tired  and 
would  be  glad  of  a  glass  of  milk. 

Without  a  word  she  turned  and  left  me  standing 
there,  and  presently  returned  with  a  tumbler  of  milk 
which  she  placed  on  a  deal  table  standing  near  me. 
To  my  remarks  she  replied  in  monosyllables,  and  stood 
impassively,  her  hands  at  her  side,  her  eyes  cast  down, 
waiting  for  me  to  drink  the  milk  and  go.  And  when 
I  had  finished  it  and  set  the  glass  down  and  thanked 
her,  she  turned  in  silence  and  went  back  to  that  inner 
room  from  which  she  first  came.  And  hot  and  tired 
as  I  had  felt  a  few  moments  before,  and  desirous  of  an 
interval  of  rest  in  the  cool  shade,  I  was  glad  to  be  out 

207 


Afoot  in  England 

in  the  burning  sun  once  more,  for  the  sight  of  that 
young  woman  had  chilled  my  blood  and  made  the  heat 
out-of-doors  seem  grateful  to  me. 

The  sight  of  such  a  face  in  the  midst  of  such  sur- 
roundings had  produced  a  shock  of  surprise,  for  it  was 
noble  in  shape,  the  features  all  fine  and  the  mouth  most 
delicately  chiselled,  the  eyes  dark  and  beautiful,  and 
the  hair  of  a  raven  blackness.  But  it  was  a  colourless 
face,  and  even  the  lips  were  pale.  Strongest  of  all 
was  the  expression,  which  had  frozen  there,  and  was 
like  the  look  of  one  on  whom  some  unimaginable  dis- 
aster or  some  hateful  disillusionment  had  come,  not  to 
subdue  nor  soften,  but  to  change  all  its  sweet  to  sour, 
and  its  natural  warmth  to  icy  cold. 


^08 


Chapter  Eighteen:    Branscombe 

Health  and  pleasure  resorts  and  all  parasitic  towns 
in  fact,  inland  or  on  the  sea,  have  no  attractions  for 
me  and  I  was  more  than  satisfied  with  a  day  or  two  of 
Sidmouth.  Then  one  evening  I  heard  for  the  first 
time  of  a  place  called  Branscombe — a  village  near  the 
sea,  over  by  Beer  and  Seaton,  near  the  mouth  of  the 
Axe,  and  the  account  my  old  host  gave  me  seemed  so 
attractive  that  on  the  following  day  I  set  out  to  find 
it.  Further  information  about  the  unknown  village 
came  to  me  in  a  very  agreeable  way  in  the  course  of 
my  tramp.  A  hotter  walk  I  never  walked — no,  not 
even  when  travelling  across  a  flat  sunburnt  treeless 
plain,  nearer  than  Devon  by  many  degrees  to  the  equa- 
tor. One  wonders  why  that  part  of  Devon  which 
lies  between  the  Exe  and  the  Axe  seems  actually  hotter 
than  other  regions  which  undoubtedly  have  a 
higher  temperature.  After  some  hours  of  walking 
with  not  a  little  of  uphill  and  downhill,  I  began  to  find 
the  heat  well-nigh  intolerable.  I  was  on  a  hard  dusty 
glaring  road,  shut  in  by  dusty  hedges  on  cither  side. 
Not  a  breath  of  air  was  stirring;  not  a  bird  sang;  on 
the  vast  sky  not  a  cloud  appeared.  If  the  vertical 
sun  had  poured  down  water  instead  of  light  and  heat  on 
me  my  clothing  could  not  have  clung  to  me  more  un- 
comfortably. Coming  at  length  to  a  group  of  two  or 
three  small  cottages  at  the  roadside,  I  went  into  one 

209 


Afoot  in  England 

and  asked  for  something  to  quench  my  thirst — cider 
or  milk.  There  was  only  water  to  be  had,  but  it  was 
good  to  drink,  and  the  woman  of  the  cottage  was  so 
pretty  and  pleasant  that  I  was  glad  to  rest  an  hour 
and  talk  with  her  in  her  cool  kitchen.  There  are 
English  counties  where  it  would  perhaps  be  said  of 
such  a  woman  that  she  was  one  in  a  thousand ;  but  the 
Devonians  are  a  comely  race.  In  that  blessed  county 
the  prettiest  peasants  are  not  all  diligently  gathered 
with  the  dew  on  them  and  sent  away  to  supply 
the  London  flower-market.  Among  the  best-looking 
women  of  the  peasant  class  there  are  two  distinct  types 
— the  rich  in  colour  and  the  colourless.  A  majority 
are  perhaps  intermediate,  but  the  two  extreme  types 
may  be  found  in  any  village  or  hamlet ;  and  when  seen 
side  by  side — the  lily  and  the  rose,  not  to  say  the 
peony — they  offer  a  strange  and  beautiful  contrast. 

This  woman,  in  spite  of  the  burning  climate,  was 
white  as  any  pale  town  lady ;  and  although  she  was  the 
mother  of  several  children,  the  face  was  extremely 
youthful  in  appearance;  it  seemed  indeed  almost  girl- 
ish in  its  delicacy  and  innocent  expression  when  she 
looked  up  at  me  with  her  blue  eyes  shaded  by  her 
white  sun-bonnet.  The  children  were  five  or  six  In 
number,  ranging  from  a  boy  of  ten  to  a  baby  in  her 
arms — all  clean  and  healthy  looking,  with  bright,  fun- 
loving  faces. 

I  mentioned  that  I  was  on  my  way  to  Branscombe, 
and  inquired  the  distance. 

''Branscombe — are  you  going  there?  Oh,  I  wonder 
what  you  will  think  of  Branscombe!"  she  exclaimed, 

210 


Branscombe 
her  white  cheeks  flushing,  her  innocent  eyes  sparkling 
with  excitement. 

What  was  Branscombe  to  her,  I  returned  with  in- 
difference; and  what  did  it  matter  what  any  stranger 
thought  of  it? 

"But  it  is  my  home!"  she  answered,  looking  hurt 
at  my  careless  words.  "I  was  born  there,  and  married 
there,  and  have  always  lived  at  Branscombe  with  my 
people  until  my  husband  got  work  in  this  place;  then 
we  had  to  leave  home  and  come  and  live  in  this  cot- 
tage." 

And  as  I  began  to  show  interest  she  went  on  to  tell 
me  that  Branscombe  was,  oh,  such  a  dear,  queer, 
funny  old  place !  That  she  had  been  to  other  villages 
and  towns — ^Axmouth,  and  Seaton,  and  Beer,  and  to 
Salcombe  Regis  and  Sidmouth,  and  once  to  Exeter; 
but  never,  never  had  she  seen  a  place  like  Branscombe 
— not  one  that  she  liked  half  so  well.  How  strange 
that  I  had  never  been  there — had  never  even  heard  of 
it !  People  that  went  there  sometimes  laughed  at  it  at 
first,  because  it  was  such  a  funny,  tumbledown  old 
place;  but  they  always  said  afterwards  that  there  was 
no  sweeter  spot  on  the  earth. 

Her  enthusiasm  was  very  delightful;  and,  when 
baby  cried,  in  the  excitement  of  talk  she  opened  her 
breast  and  fed  it  before  me.  A  pretty  sight!  But 
for  the  pure  white,  blue-veined  skin  she  might  have 
been  taken  for  a  woman  of  Spain — the  most  natural, 
perhaps  the  most  lovable,  of  the  daughters  of  earth. 
But  all  at  once  she  remembered  that  I  was  a  stranger, 
and  with  a  blush  turned  aside  and  covered  her  fair 

211 


Afoot  in  England 

skin.  Her  shame,  too,  like  her  first  simple  uncon- 
scious action,  was  natural;  for  we  live  in  a  cooler  cli- 
mate, and  are  accustomed  to  more  clothing  than  the 
Spanish;  and  our  closer  covering  "has  entered  the 
soul,"  as  the  late  Professor  Kitchen  Parker  would 
have  said;  and  that  which  was  only  becoming  modesty 
in  the  English  woman  would  in  the  Spanish  seem  rank 
prudishness. 

In  the  afternoon  I  came  to  a  slender  stream,  clear 
and  swift,  running  between  the  hills  that  rose,  round 
and  large  and  high,  on  either  hand,  like  vast  downs, 
some  grassy,  others  wooded.  This  was  the  Brans- 
combe,  and,  following  it,  I  came  to  the  village;  then, 
for  a  short  mile  my  way  ran  by  a  winding  path  with 
the  babbling  stream  below  me  on  one  side,  and  on  the 
other  the  widely  separated  groups  and  little  rows  of 
thatched  cottages. 

Finally,  I  came  to  the  last  and  largest  group  of  all, 
the  end  of  the  village  nearest  to  the  sea,  within  ten 
minutes'  walk  of  the  shingly  beach.  Here  I  was 
glad  to  rest.  Above,  on  the  giant  downs,  were  stony 
waste  places,  and  heather  and  gorse,  where  the  rabbits 
live,  and  had  for  neighbours  the  adder,  linnet,  and 
wheatear,  and  the  small  grey  titlark  that  soared  up  and 
dropped  back  to  earth  all  day  to  his  tinkling  little  tune. 
On  the  summit  of  the  cliff  I  had  everything  I  wanted 
and  had  come  to  seek — the  wildness  and  freedom  of 
untilled  earth;  an  unobstructed  prospect,  hills  beyond 
hills  of  malachite,  stretching  away  along  the  coast  into 
infinitude,  long  leagues  of  red  sea-wall  and  the  wide 
expanse  and  everlasting  freshness  of  ocean.     And  the 

212 


Branscombe 

village  itself,  the  little  old  straggling  place  that  had 
so  grand  a  setting,  I  quickly  found  that  the  woman  in 
the  cottage  had  not  succeeded  In  giving  me  a  false  Im- 
pression of  her  dear  home.  It  was  just  such  a  quaint 
unimproved,  old-world,  restful  place  as  she  had 
painted.  It  was  surprising  to  find  that  there  were 
many  visitors,  and  one  wondered  where  they  could  all 
stow  themselves.  The  explanation  was  that  those 
who  visited  Branscombe  knew  it,  and  preferred  its 
hovels  to  the  palaces  of  the  fashionable  seaside  town. 
No  cottage  was  too  mean  to  have  Its  guest.  I  saw  a 
lady  push  open  the  cracked  and  warped  door  of  an  old 
barn  and  go  in,  pulling  the  door  to  after  her — it  was 
her  bed-slttlng-room.  I  watched  a  party  of  pretty 
merry  girls  marching,  single  file,  down  a  narrow  path 
past  a  pig-sty,  then  climb  up  a  ladder  to  the  window  of 
a  loft  at  the  back  of  a  stone  cottage  and  disappear 
within.  It  was  their  bedroom.  The  relations  be- 
tween the  villagers  and  their  visitors  were  more  in- 
timate and  kind  than  Is  usual.  They  lived  more  to- 
gether, and  were  more  free  and  easy  in  company. 
The  men  were  mostly  farm  labourers,  and  after  their 
day's  work  they  would  sit  out-of-doors  on  the  ground 
to  smoke  their  pipes;  and  where  the  narrow  crooked 
little  street  was  narrowest — at  my  end  of  the  village — 
when  two  men  would  sit  opposite  each  other,  each  at 
his  own  door,  with  legs  stretched  out  before  them, 
their  boots  would  very  nearly  touch  in  the  middle  of 
the  road.  When  walking  one  had  to  step  over  their 
legs;  or,  if  socially  inclined,  one  could  stand  by  and 
join  in  the  conversation.     When  daylight  faded  the 

213 


Afoot  in  England 

village  was  very  dark — no  lamp  for  the  visitors — and 
very  silent,  only  the  low  murmur  of  the  sea  on  the 
shingle  was  audible,  and  the  gurgling  sound  of  a  swift 
streamlet  flowing  from  the  hill  above  and  hurrying 
through  the  village  to  mingle  with  the  Branscombe 
lower  down  In  the  meadows.  Such  a  profound  dark- 
ness and  quiet  one  expects  in  an  inland  agricultural 
village;  here,  where  there  were  visitors  from  many 
distant  towns,  it  was  novel  and  infinitely  refreshing. 

No  sooner  was  it  dark  than  all  were  in  bed  and 
asleep ;  not  one  squar«e  patj:h  of  yellow  light  was  visible. 
To  enjoy  the  sensation  I  went  out  and  sat  down,  and 
listened  alone  to  the  liquid  rippling,  warbling  sound 
of  the  swift-flowing  streamlet — that  sweet  low  music 
of  running  water  to  which  the  reed-warbler  had 
listened  thousands  of  years  ago,  striving  to  imitate  it, 
until   his  running  rippling  song  was  perfect. 

A  fresh  surprise  and  pleasure  awaited  me  when  I 
explored  the  coast  east  of  the  village;  it  was  bold 
and  precipitous  in  places,  and  from  the  summit  of 
the  cliff  a  very  fine  view  of  the  coast-line  on  either 
hand  could  be  obtained.  Best  of  all,  the  face  of  the 
cliff  itself  was  the  breeding-place  of  some  hundreds 
of  herring-gulls.  The  eggs  at  the  period  of  my  visit 
were  not  yet  hatched,  but  highly  incubated,  and  at 
that  stage  both  parents  are  almost  constantly  at  home, 
as  if  in  a  state  of  anxious  suspense.  I  had  seen  a 
good  many  colonies  of  this  gull  before  at  various 
breeding  stations  on  the  coast — south,  west,  and  east 
— but  never  in  conditions  so  singularly  favourable  as 
at  this  spot.     From  the  vale  where  the  Branscombe 

214 


Branscomhe 

pours  its  clear  waters  through  rough  masses  of  shingle 
into  the  sea  the  ground  to  the  east  rises  steeply  to  a 
height  of  nearly  five  hundred  feet;  the  cliff  is  thus 
not  nearly  so  high  as  many  another,  but  it  has  features 
of  peculiar  interest.  Here,  in  some  former  time,  there 
has  been  a  landslip,  a  large  portion  of  the  cliff  at  its 
highest  part  falling  below  and  forming  a  sloping  mass 
a  chalky  soil  mingled  with  huge  fragments  of  rock, 
which  lies  like  a  buttress  against  the  vertical  precipice 
and  seems  to  lend  it  support.  The  fall  must  have 
occurred  a  very  long  time  back,  as  the  vegetation  that 
overspreads  the  rude  slope — hawthorn,  furze,  and 
ivy — ^has  an  ancient  look.  Here  are  huge  masses  of 
rock  standing  isolated,  that  resemble  in  their  forms 
ruined  castles,  towers,  and  churches,  some  of  them 
completely  overgrown  with  ivy.  On  this  rough  slope, 
under  the  shelter  of  the  chff,  with  the  sea  at  its  feet, 
the  villagers  have  formed  their  cultivated  patches. 
The  patches,  wildly  irregular  in  form,  some  on  such 
steeply  sloping  ground  as  to  suggest  the  idea  that  they 
must  have  been  cultivated  on  all  fours,  are  divided 
from  each  other  by  ridges  and  by  masses  of  rock,  deep 
fissures  in  the  earth,  strips  of  bramble  and  thorn  and 
furze  bushes.  Altogether  the  effect  was  very  sin- 
gular; the  huge  rough  mass  of  jumbled  rock  and  soil, 
the  ruin  wrought  by  Nature  in  one  of  her  Cromwel- 
lian  moods,  and,  scattered  irregularly  about  its  sur- 
face, the  plots  or  patches  of  cultivated  smoothness — 
potato  rows,  green  parallel  lines  ruled  on  a  grey 
ground,  and  big,  blue-green,  equidistant  cabbage-globes 
— each  plot  with  its  fringe  of  spike-like  onion  leaves, 

215 


Afoot  in  England 

crinkled  parsley,  and  other  garden  herbs.  Here  the 
villagers  came  by  a  narrow,  steep,  and  difficult  path 
they  had  made,  to  dig  in  their  plots;  while,  overhead, 
the  gulls,  careless  of  their  presence,  pass  and  repass 
wholly  occupied  with  their  own  affairs. 

I  spent  hours  of  rare  happiness  at  this  spot  in  watch- 
ing the  birds.  I  could  not  have  seen  and  heard  them 
to  such  advantage  if  their  breeding-place  had  been 
shared  with  other  species.  Here  the  herring-gulls  had 
the  rock  to  themselves,  and  looked  their  best  in  their 
foam-white  and  pearl-grey  plumage  and  yellow  legs 
and  beaks.  While  I  watched  them  they  watched  me; 
not  gathered  in  groups,  but  singly  or  in  pairs,  scattered 
up  and  down  all  over  the  face  of  the  precipice  above 
me,  perched  on  ledges  and  on  jutting  pieces  of  rock. 
Standing  motionless  thus,  beautiful  in  form  and  colour, 
they  looked  like  sculptured  figures  of  gulls,  set  up  on 
the  projections  against  the  rough  dark  wall  of  rock, 
just  as  sculptured  figures  of  angels  and  saintly  men  and 
women  are  placed  in  niches  on  a  cathedral  front.  At 
first  they  appeared  quite  indifferent  to  my  presence, 
although  in  some  instances  near  enough  for  their 
yellow  irides  to  be  visible.  While  unalarmed  they 
were  very  silent,  standing  in  that  clear  sunshine  that 
gave  their  whiteness  something  of  a  crystalline  appear- 
ance; or  flying  to  and  fro  along  the  face  of  the  cliff, 
purely  for  the  delight  of  bathing  in  the  warm  lucent 
air.  Gradually  a  change  came  over  them.  One  by  one 
those  that  were  on  the  wing  dropped  on  to  some  pro- 
jection, until  they  had  all  settled  down,  and,  letting 
my  eyes  range  up  and  down  over  the  huge  wall  of 

2l6 


Branscombe 

rock,  It  was  plain  to  see  that  all  the  birds  were  watch- 
ing me.  They  had  made  the  discovery  that  I  was  a 
stranger.  In  my  rough  old  travel-stained  clothes  and 
tweed  hat  I  might  have  passed  for  a  Branscombe  vil- 
lager, but  I  did  no  hoeing  and  digging  in  one  of  the 
cultivated  patches;  and  when  I  deliberately  sat  down 
on  a  rock  to  watch  them,  they  noticed  it  and  became 
suspicious;  and  as  time  went  on  and  I  still  remained 
immovable,  with  my  eyes  fixed  on  them,  the  suspicion 
and  anxiety  increased  and  turned  to  fear;  and  those 
that  were  sitting  on  their  nests  got  up  and  came  close 
to  the  edge  of  th-e  rock,  to  gaze  with  the  others  and 
join  in  the  loud  chiorus  of  alarm.  It  was  a  wonderful 
sound.  Not  like  the  tempest  of  noise  that  may  be 
heard  at  the  breeding-season  at  Lundy  Island,  and  at 
many  other  stations  where  birds  of  several  species  mix 
their  various  voices — the  yammeris  and  the  yowlis,  and 
skrykking,  screeking,  skrymming  scowlis,  and  meickle 
moyes  and  shoutes,  of  old  Dunbar's  wonderful  ono- 
matopoetic  lines.  Here  there  was  only  orwe  species, 
with  a  clear  resonant  cry,  and  as  every  bird  uttered 
that  one  cry,  and  no  other,  a  totally  different  effect 
was  produced.  The  herring-gull  and  lesser  black- 
backed  gull  resemble  each  other  in  language  as  they 
do  in  general  appearance;  both  have  very  powerful 
and  clear  voices  unlike  the  guttural  black-headed  and 
common  gull.  But  the  herring-gull  has  a  shriller, 
more  piercing  voice,  and  resembles  the  black-backed 
species  just  as,  in  human  voices,  a  boy's  clear  treble 
resembles  a  baritone.  Both  birds  have  a  variety  of 
notes;   and  both,   when  the  nest  is  threatened  with 

217 


Afoot  in  England 

danger,  utter  one  powerful  importunate  cry,  which  is 
repeated  incessantly  until  the  danger  is  over.  And  as 
the  birds  breed  in  communities,  often  very  populous, 
and  all  clamour  together,  the  effect  of  so  many  power- 
ful and  unisonant  voices  is  very  grand;  but  it  differs 
in  the  two  species,  owing  to  the  quality  of  their  voices 
being  different;  the  storm  of  sound  produced  by  the 
black-backs  is  deep  and  solemn,  while  that  of  the  her- 
ring-gulls has  a  ringing  sharpness  almost  metallic. 

It  is  probable  that  in  the  case  I  am  describing  the 
effect  of  sharpness  and  resonance  was  h-eightened  by 
the  position  of  the  birds,  perched  motionless,  scattered 
about  on  the  face  of  the  perpendicular  wall  of  rock, 
all  with  their  beaks  turned  in  my  direction,  raining 
their  cries  upon  me.  It  was  not  a  monotonous  storm 
of  cries,  but  rose  and  fell;  for  after  two  or  three 
minutes  the  excitement  would  abate  somewhat  and 
the  cries  grow  fewer  and  fewer;  then  the  infection 
would  spread  again,  bird  after  bird  joining  the  out- 
cry; and  after  a  while  there  would  be  another  lull, 
and  so  on,  wave  following  wave  of  sound.  I  could 
have  spent  hours,  and  the  hours  would  have  seemed 
like  minutes,  listening  to  that  strange  chorus  of  ringing 
chiming  cries,  so  novel  was  its  effect,  and  unlike  that 
of  any  other  tempest  of  sound  produced  by  birds 
which  I  had  ever  heard.  When  by  way  of  a  parting 
caress  and  benediction  (given  and  received)  I  dipped 
my  hands  in  Branscombe's  clear  streamlet  it  was  with 
a  feeling  of  tender  regret  that  was  almost  a  pain. 
For  who  does  not  make  a  little  inward  moan,  an  Eve's 
Lamentation,  an  unworded,  "Must  I  leave  thee.  Par- 

218 


Branscombe 

adise?"  on  quitting  any  such  sweet  restful  spot,  how- 
ever brief  his  stay  in  it  may  have  been?  But  when 
I  had  climbed  to  the  summit  of  the  great  down  on  the 
east  side  of  the  valley  and  looked  on  the  wide  land 
and  wider  sea  flashed  with  the  early  sunlight  I  re- 
joiced full  of  glory  at  my  freedom.  For  invariably 
when  the  peculiar  character  and  charm  of  a  place  steals 
over  and  takes  possession  of  me  I  begin  to  fear  It, 
knowing  from  long  experience  that  it  will  be  a  pain- 
ful wrench  to  get  away  and  that  get  away  sooner  or 
later  I  must.  Now  I  was  free  once  more,  a  wanderer 
with  no  ties,  no  business  to  transact  In  any  town,  no 
worries  to  make  me  miserable  like  others,  nothing  to 
gain  and  nothing  to  lose. 

Pausing  on  the  summit  to  consider  which  way  I 
should  go,  inland,  towards  Axmlnister,  or  along  the 
coast  by  Beer,  Seton,  Axmouth,  and  so  on  to  Lyme 
Regis,  I  turned  to  have  a  last  look  and  say  a  last 
good-bye  to  Branscombe  and  could  hardly  help  waving 
my  hand  to  It. 

Why,  I  asked  myself,  am  I  not  a  poet,  or  verse- 
maker,  so  as  to  say  my  farewell  In  numbers?  My 
answer  was.  Because  I  am  too  much  occupied  In  seeing. 
There  is  no  room  and  time  for  'tranquillity,'  since  I 
want  to  go  on  to  see  something  else.  As  Blake  has  It: 
^'Natural  objects  always  did  and  do*  weaken,  deaden 
and  obliterate  imagination  in  me." 

We  know  however  that  they  didn't  quite  quench  it 
in  him. 


219 


Chapter  Nineteen:  Abbotsbury 

Abbotsbury  is  an  old  unspoilt  village,  not  on  but  near 
the  sea,  divided  from  it  by  half  a  mile  of  meadow- 
land  where  all  sorts  of  meadow  and  water  plants 
flourish,  and  where  there  are  extensive  reed  and  osier 
beds,  the  roosting-place  in  autumn  and  winter  of  In- 
numerable starlings.  I  am  always  delighted  to  come 
on  one  of  these  places  where  starlings  congregate,  to 
watch  them  coming  in  at  day's  decline  and  listen  to 
their  marvellous  hubbub,  and  finally  to  see  their  aerial 
evolutions  when  they  rise  and  break  up  In  great  bodies 
and  play  at  clouds  In  the  sky.  When  the  people  of  the 
place,  the  squire  and  keepers  and  others  who  have 
an  interest  in  the  reeds  and  osiers,  fall  to  abusing  them 
on  account  of  the  damage  they  do,  I  put  my  fingers 
in  my  ears.  But  at  Abbotsbury  I  did  not  do  so,  but 
•listened  with  keen  pleasure  to  the  curses  they  vented 
and  the  story  they  told.  This  was  that  when  the 
owner  o£  Abbotsbury  came  down  for  the  October 
shooting  and  found  the  starlings  more  numerous  than 
ever,  he  put  himself  into  a  fine  passion  and  reproached 
his  keepers  and  other  servants  for  not  having  got  rid 
of  the  birds  as  he  had  desired  them  to  do.  Some  of 
them  ventured  to  say  that  it  was  easier  said  than  done, 
whereupon  the  great  man  swore  that  he  would  do  it 
himself  without  assistance  from  any  one,  and  getting 

220 


Abbotsbury 

out  a  big  duck-gun  he  proceeded  to  load  it  with  the 
smallest  shot  and  went  down  to  the  reed  bed  and  con- 
cealed himself  among  the  bushes  at  a  suitable  distance. 
The  birds  were  pouring  in,  and  when  it  was  growing 
dark  and  they  had  settled  down  for  the  night  he  fired 
his  big  piece  into  the  thick  of  the  crowd,  and  by  and 
by  when  the  birds  after  wheeling  about  for  a  minute  or 
two  settled  down  again  in  the  same  place  he  fired 
again.  Then  he  went  home,  and  early  next  morning 
men  and  boys  went  into  the  reeds  and  gathered  a 
bushel  or  so  of  dead  starlings.  But  the  birds  returned 
In  their  thousands  that  evening,  and  his  heart  being 
still  hot  against  them  he  went  out  a  second  time  to 
slaughter  them  wholesale  with  his  big  gun.  Then  when 
he  had  blazed  into  the  crowd  once  more,  and  the  dead 
and  wounded  fell  like  rain  into  the  water  below,  the  re- 
vulsion came  and  he  was  mad  with  himself  for  having 
done  such  a  thing,  and  on  his  return  to  the  house,  or 
palace,  he  angrily  told  his  people  to  "let  the  starlings 
alone"  for  the  future — never  to  molest  them  again! 

I  thought  it  one  of  the  loveliest  stories  I  had  ever 
heard;  there  is  no  hardness  comparable  to  that  of 
the  sportsman,  yet  here  was  one,  a  very  monarch 
among  them,  who  turned  sick  at  his  own  barbarity 
and  repented. 

Beyond  the  flowery  wet  meadows,  favored  by  star- 
lings and  a  breeding-place  of  swans,  is  the  famous 
Chesil  Bank,  one  of  the  seven  wonders  of  Britain. 
And  thanks  to  this  great  bank,  a  screen  between  sea 
and  land  extending  about  fourteen  miles  eastward  from 
Portland,  this  part  of  the  coast  must  remain  inviolate 

221 


Afoot  in  England 

from  the  speculative  builder  of  seaside  holiday  resorts 
or  towns  of  lodging-houses. 

Every  one  has  heard  of  the  Fleet  in  connection  with 
the  famous  swannery  of  Abbotsbury,  the  largest  in 
the  land.  I  had  heard  so  much  about  the  swannery 
that  it  had  but  little  interest  for  me.  The  only  thing 
about  it  which  specially  attracted  my  attention  was 
seeing  a  swan  rise  up  and  after  passing  over  my  head 
as  I  stood  on  the  bank  fly  straight  out  over  the  sea. 
I  watched  him  until  he  had  diminished  to  a  small 
white  spot  above  the  horizon,  and  then  still  flying  he 
faded  from  sight.  Do  these  swans  that  fly  away  over 
the  sea,  and  others  which  appear  in  small  flocks  or 
pairs  at  Poole  Harbour  and  at  other  places  on  the 
coast,  ever  return  to  the  Fleet?  Probably  some  do, 
but,  I  fancy  some  of  these  explorers  must  settle  down 
in  waters  far  from  home,  to  return  no  more. 

The  village  itself,  looked  upon  from  this  same 
elevation,  is  very  attractive.  Life  seems  quieter,  more 
peaceful  there  out  of  sight  of  the  ocean's  turbulence, 
out  of  hearing  of  its  "accents  disconsolate."  The 
cottages  are  seen  ranged  in  a  double  line  along  the 
narrow  crooked  street,  like  a  procession  of  cows  with 
a  few  laggards  scattered  behind  the  main  body.  One 
is  impressed  by  its  ancient  character.  The  cottages 
are  old,  stone-built  and  thatched;  older  still  is  the 
church  with  its  grey  square  tower,  and  all  about  are 
scattered  the  memorials  of  antiquity — the  chantry  on 
the  hill,  standing  conspicuous  alone,  apart,  above  the 
world;   the   vast   old   abbey  barn,    and   rough   thick 

222 


Abbotsbury 

stone  walls,  ivy-draped  and  crowned  with  beautiful 
valerian,  and  other  fragments  that  were  once  parts  of 
a  great  religious  house. 

Looking  back  at  the  great  round  hill  from  the 
village  it  is  impossible  not  to  notice  the  intense  red 
colour  of  the  road  that  winds  over  its  green  slope. 
One  sometimes  sees  on  a  hillside  a  ploughed  field  of 
red  earth  which  at  a  distance  might  easily  be  taken 
for  a  field  of  blossoming  trifolium.  Viewed  nearer 
the  crimson  of  the  clover  and  red  of  the  earth  are 
very  dissimilar;  distance  appears  to  intensify  the  red 
of  the  soil  and  to  soften  that  of  the  flower  until  they 
are  very  nearly  of  the  same  hue.  The  road  at  Abbots- 
bury  was  near  and  looked  to  me  more  intensely  red 
than  any  ordinary  red  earth,  and  the  sight  was 
strangely  pleasing.  These  two  complementary  col- 
ours, red  and  green,  delight  us  most  when  seen  thus — 
a  little  red  to  a  good  deal  of  green,  and  the  more 
luminous  the  red  and  vivid  the  green  the  better  they 
please  us.  We  see  this  in  flowers — in  the  red  gera- 
nium, for  example — where  there  is  no  brown  soil  be- 
low, but  green  of  turf  or  herbage.  I  sometimes  think 
the  red  campions  and  ragged-robins  are  our  most 
beautiful  wild  flowers  when  the  sun  shines  level  on 
the  meadow  and  they  are  like  crimson  flowers  among 
the  tall  translucent  grasses.  I  remember  the  joy  It 
was  in  boyhood  In  early  spring  when  the  flowers  were 
beginning  to  bloom,  when  in  our  gallops  over  the  level 
grass  pampas  we  came  upon  a  patch  of  scarlet  ver- 
benas.    The  first  sight  of  the  intense  blooms  scattered 

223 


Afoot  in  England 

all  about  the  turf  would  make  us  wild  with  delight, 
and  throwing  ourselves  from  our  ponies  we  would  go 
down  among  the  flowers  to  feast  on  the  sight. 

Green  is  universal,  but  the  red  earth  which  looks 
so  pleasing  amid  the  green  is  distributed  very  par- 
tially, and  it  may  be  the  redness  of  the  soil  and  the 
cliffs  in  Devon  have  given  that  county  a  more  vivid 
personality,  so  to  speak,  than  most  others.  Think  of 
Kent  with  its  white  cliffs,  chalk  downs,  and  dull-col- 
oured clays  in  this  connection! 

The  humble  subterraneous  mole  proves  himself  on 
occasions  a  good  colourist  when  he  finds  a  soil  of  the 
proper  hue  to  burrow  in,  and  the  hillocks  he  throws 
up  from  numberless  irregular  splashes  of  bright  red 
colour  on  a  green  sward.  The  wild  animals  that 
strike  us  as  most  beautiful,  when  seen  against  a  green 
background,  are  those  which  bear  the  reddest  fur — 
fox,  squirrel,  and  red  deer.  One  day,  in  a  meadow  a 
few  miles  from  Abbotsbury,  I  came  upon  a  herd  of 
about  fifty  milch  cows  scattered  over  a  considerable 
space  of  ground,  some  lying  down,  others  standing 
ruminating,  and  still  others  moving  about  and  crop- 
ping the  long  flowery  grasses.  All  were  of  that  fine 
rich  red  colour  frequently  seen  in  Dorset  and  Devon 
cattle,  which  is  brighter  than  the  reds  of  other  red 
animals  in  this  country,  wild  and  domestic,  with  the 
sole  exception  of  a  rare  variety  of  the  coUie  dog.  The 
Irish  setter  and  red  chou-chou  come  near  it.  So 
beautiful  did  these  red  cows  look  in  the  meadow  that 
I  stood  still  for  half  an  hour  feasting  my  eyes  on  the 
sight. 

224 


Abbotsbury 

No  less  wa^  the  pleasure  I  experienced  when  I 
caught  sight  of  that  road  winding  over  the  hill  above 
the  village.  On  going  to  It  I  found  that  It  had  looked 
as  red  as  rust  simply  because  It  was  rust — earth  made 
rich  and  beautiful  In  colour  with  iron,  Its  red  hue 
variegated  with  veins  and  streaks  of  deep  purple  or 
violet.  I  was  told  that  there  were  hundreds  of  acres 
of  this  earth  all  round  the  place — earth  so  rich  In 
Iron  that  many  a  man's  mouth  had  watered  at  the 
sight  of  it;  also  that  every  effort  had  been  made  to 
induce  the  owner  of  Abbotsbury  to  allow  this  rich  mine 
to  be  worked.  But,  wonderful  to  relate,  he  had  not 
been  persuaded. 

A  hard  fragment  of  the  red  stuff,  measuring  a 
couple  of  Inches  across  and  weighing  about  three 
ounces  avoirdupois,  rust-red  in  colour  with  purple 
streaks  and  yellow  mottlings,  Is  now  lying  before  me. 
The  mineralogist  would  tell  me  that  Its  commercial 
value  is  naught,  or  something  infinitesimal;  which  Is 
doubtless  true  enough,  as  tens  of  thousands  of  tons 
of  the  same  material  lie  close  to  the  surface  under 
the  green  turf  and  golden  blossoming  furze  at  the  spot 
where  I  picked  up  my  specimen.  The  lapidary  would 
not  look  at  it;  nevertheless,  it  Is  the  only  article  of 
jewellery  I  possess,  and  I  value  It  accordingly.  And 
I  Intend  to  keep  this  native  ruby  by  me  for  as  long 
as  the  lords  of  Abbotsbury  continue  in  their  present 
mind.  The  time  may  come  when  I  shall  be  obliged 
to  throw  It  away.  That  any  millionaire  should  hesi- 
tate for  a  moment  to  blast  and  blacken  any  part  of  the 
earth's  surface,  howsoever  green  and  refreshing  to 

225 


Afoot  in  England 

the  heart  It  may  be,  when  by  so  doing  he  might  add 
to  his  income,  seems  like  a  fable,  or  a  tale  of  fairy- 
land. It  is  as  if  one  had  accidentally  discovered  the 
existence  of  a  little  fantastic  realm,  a  survival  from  a 
remote  past,  almost  at  one's  doors;  a  small  indepen- 
dent province,  untouched  by  progress,  asking  to  be 
conquered  and  its  antediluvian  constitution  taken  from 
it. 

From  the  summit  of  that  commanding  hill,  over 
which  the  red  path  winds,  a  noble  view  presents  itself 
of  the  Chesil  Bank,  or  of  about  ten  miles  of  it,  run- 
ning straight  as  any  Roman  road,  to  end  beneath  the 
rugged  stupendous  cliffs  of  Portland.  The  ocean  it- 
self, and  not  conquering  Rome,  raised  this  artificial- 
looking  wall  or  rampart  to  stay  its  own  proud  waves. 
Formed  of  polished  stones  and  pebbles,  about  two 
hundred  yards  in  width,  flat-topped,  with  steeply  slop- 
ing sides,  at  this  distance  it  has  the  appearance  of  a 
narrow  yellow  road  or  causeway  between  the  open  sea 
on  one  hand  and  the  waters  of  the  Fleet,  a  narrow 
lake  ten  miles  long,  on  the  other. 

When  the  mackerel  visit  the  coa.st,  and  come  near 
enough  to  be  taken  in  a  draw-net,  every  villager  who 
owns  a  share  (usually  a  tenth)  in.  a  fishing4)oat  throws 
down  his  spade  or  whatever  implement  he  happens  to 
have  in  his  hand  a.t  the  moment,  and  hurries  away  to 
the  beach  to  take  his  share  in  the  fascinating  task.  At 
four  o'clock  one  morning  a  youth,  who  had  been  down 
to  the  sea  to  watch,  came  running  into  the  village 
uttering  loud  cries  which  were  like  excited  yells — a 
sound  to  rouse  the  deepest  sleeper.     The  mackerel 

226 


Abbotsbury 

had  come !  For  the  rest  of  the  day  there  was  a  pretty 
kind  of  straggling  procession  of  those  who  went  and 
came  between  the  beach  and  the  village — men  in  blue 
cotton  shirts,  blue  jerseys,  blue  jackets,  and  women  in 
grey  gowns  and  big  white  sun-bonnets.  During  the 
latter  part  of  the  day  the  proceedings  were  peculiarly 
interesting  to  me,  a  looker-on  with  no  share  in  any  one 
of  the  boats,  owing  to  the  catches  being  composed 
chiefly  of  jelly-fish.  Some  sympathy  was  felt  for  the 
toilers  who  strained  their  muscles  again  and  again  only 
to  be  mocked  in  the  end;  still,  a  draught  of  jelly-fish 
was  more  to  my  taste  than  one  of  mackerel.  The 
great  weight  of  a  catch  of  this  kind  when  the  net  was 
full  was  almost  too  much  for  the  ten  or  twelve  men 
engaged  in  drawing  it  up;  then  (to  the  sound  of  deep 
curses  from  those  of  the  men  who  were  not  religious) 
the  net  would  be  opened  and  the  great  crystalline  hem- 
ispheres, hyaline  blue  and  delicate  salmon-pink  in  col- 
our, would  slide  back  into  the  water.  Such  rare  and 
exquisite  colours  have  these  great  glassy  flowers  of 
ocean  that  to  see  them  was  a  feast;  and  every  time  a 
net  was  hauled  up  my  prayer — ^which  I  was  careful 
not  to  repeat  aloud — was,  Heaven  send  another  big 
draught  of  jelly-fish  I 

The  sun,  sinking  over  the  hills  towards  Swyre  and 
Bridport,  turned  crimson  before  it  touched  the  horizon. 
The  sky  became  luminous;  the  yellow  Chesil  Bank, 
stretching  long  leagues  away,  and  the  hills  behind  it, 
changed  their  colours  to  violet.  The  rough  sea  near 
the  beach  glittered  like  gold;  the  deep  green  water, 
flecked  with  foam,  was  mingled  with  fire ;  the  one  boat 

227 


Afoot  in  England 

that  remained  on  it,  tossing  up  and  down  near  the 
beach,  was  like  a  boat  of  ebony  in  a  glittering  fiery  sea. 
A  dozen  men  were  drawing  up  the  last  net;  but  when 
they  gathered  round  to  see  what  they  had  taken — 
mackerel  or  jelly-fish — I  cared  no  longer  to  look  with 
them.  That  sudden,  wonderful  glory  which  had  fal- 
len on  the  earth  and  sea  had  smitten  me  as  well  and 
changed  me ;  and  I  was  like  some  needy  homeless  tramp 
who  has  found  a  shilling  piece,  and,  even  while  he  is 
gloating  over  it,  all  at  once  sees  a  great  treasure  be- 
fore him — glittering  gold  in  heaps,  and  all  rarest 
sparkling  gems,  more  than  he  can  gather  up. 

But  it  is  a  poor  simile.  No  treasures  in  gold  and 
gems,  though  heaped  waist-high  all  about,  could  pro- 
duce in  the  greediest  man,  hungry  for  earthly  pleasures, 
a  delight,  a  rapture,  equal  to  mine.  For  this  joy  was 
of  another  and  higher  order  and  very  rare,  and  was  a 
sense  of  lightness  and  freedom  from  all  trammels  as 
if  the  body  had  become  air,  essence,  energy,  or  soul, 
and  of  unian  with  all  viai-ble  nature,  one  with  sea  and 
land  and  the  entire  vast  overarching  sky. 

We  read  of  certain  saints  who  were  subject  to  ex- 
periences of  this  kind  that  they  were  "snatched  up" 
into  some  supramundane  region,  and  that  they  stated 
on  their  return  to  earth  that  it  was  not  lawful  for 
them  to  speak  of  the  things  they  had  witnessed.  The 
humble  naturalist  and  nature-worshipper  can  only  wit- 
ness the  world  glorified — transfigured;  what  he  finds 
is  the  important  thing.  I  fancy  the  mystics  would 
have  been  nearer  the  mark  if  they  had  said  that  their 
experiences   during  their  period  of  exaltation  could 

228 


Abbotsbury 

not  be  reported,  or  that  it  would  be  Idle  to  report 
them,  since  their  questioners  lived  on  the  ground  and 
would  be  quite  Incapable  on  account  of  the  mind's  lim- 
itations of  conceiving  a  state  above  it  and  outside  of 
its  own  experience. 

The  glory  passed  and  with  it  the  exaltation:  the 
earth  and  sea  turned  grey;  the  last  boat  was  drawn 
up  on  the  slope  and  the  men  departed  slowly:  only 
one  remained,  a  rough-looking  youth,  about  fifteen 
years  old.  Some  important  matter  which  he  was  re- 
volving in  his  mind  had  detained  him  alone  on  the 
darkening  beach.  He  sat  down,  then  stood  up  and 
gazed  at  the  rolling  wave  after  wave  to  roar  and 
hiss  on  the  shingle  at  his  feet;  then  he  moved  rest- 
lessly about,  crunching  pebbles  beneath  his  thick  boots; 
finally,  making  up  his  mind,  he  took  off  his  coat,  threw 
It  down,  and  rolled  up  his  shirt-sleeves,  with  the 
resolute  air  of  a  man  about  to  engage  In  a  fight  with 
an  adversary  nearly  as  big  as  himself.  Stepping  back 
a  little  space,  he  made  a  rush  at  the  sea,  not  to  cast 
himself  In  It,  but  only,  as  It  turned  out,  with  the  ob- 
ject of  catching  some  water  in  the  hollow  of  his  hands 
from  the  top  of  an  Incoming  wave.  He  only  suc- 
ceeded in  getting  his  legs  wet,  and  in  hastily  retreat- 
ing he  fell  on  his  back.  Nothing  daunted,  he  got  up 
and  renewed  the  assault,  and  when  he  succeeded  in 
catching  water  in  his  hands  he  dashed  It  on  and  vig- 
orously rubbed  it  over  his  dirty  face.  After  repeat- 
ing the  operation  about  a  dozen  times,  receiving  mean- 
while several  falls  and  wettings,  he  appeared  satisfied, 
put  on  his  coat  and  marched  away  homewards  with 
a  composed  air. 

229 


Chapter  Twenty:  Salisbury 
Revisited 

Since  that  visit  to  Salisbury,  described  in  a  former 
chapter,  when  I  watched  and  listened  to  the  doves  in 
those  cold  days  in  early  spring,  I  have  been  there  a 
good  many  times,  but  never  at  the  time  when  the  bird 
colony  is  most  interesting  to  observe,  just  before  and 
during  the  early  part  of  the  breeding-season.  At 
length,  in  the  early  days  of  June,  1908,  the  wished 
opportunity  was  mine — wished  yet  feared,  seeing  that 
it  was  possible  some  disaster  had  fallen  upon  that 
unique  colony  of  stock-doves.  It  is  true  they  appeared 
to  be  long  established  and  well  able  to  maintain  their 
foothold  on  the  building  in  spite  of  malicious  perse- 
cuting daws,  but  there  was  nothing  to  show  that  they 
had  been  long  there,  seeing  that  it  had  been  observed 
by  no  person  but  myself  that  the  cathedral  doves  were 
stock-doves  and  not  the  domestic  pigeon  found  on 
other  large  buildings.  Great  was  my  happiness  to 
find  them  still  there,  as  well  as  the  daws  and  all  the 
other  feathered  people  who  make  this  great  building 
their  home;  even  the  kestrels  were  not  wanting. 
There  were  three  there  one  morning,  quarrelling  with 
the  daws  in  the  old  way  in  the  old  place,  halfway 
up  the  soaring  spire.  The  doves  were  somewhat  di^ 
minished  in  number,  but  there  were  a  good  many  pairs 
still,   and  I  found  no  dead  young  ones  lying  about, 

230 


Salisbury  Revisited 

as  they  were  now  probably  grown  too  large  to  be 
ejected,  but  several  young  daws,  about  a  dozen  I 
think,  fell  to  the  ground  during  my  stay.  Undoubt- 
edly they  were  dragged  out  of  their  nests  and  thrown 
down,  perhaps  by  daws  at  enmity  with  their  parents, 
or  it  may  be  by  the  doves,  who  are  not  meek-spirited, 
as  we  have  seen,  or  they  would  not  be  where  they  are, 
and  may  on  occasion  retaliate  by  invading  their  black 
enemies'  nesting-holes. 

Swallows,  martins,  and  swifts  were  numerous,  the 
martins  especially,  and  it  was  beautiful  to  see  them 
for  ever  wheeling  about  in  a  loose  swarm  about  the 
building.  They  reminded  me  of  bees  and  flies,  and 
sometimes  with  a  strong  light  on  them  they  were  like 
those  small  polished  black  and  silvery-white  beetles 
^Gyrinus)  which  we  see  in  companies  on  the  surface 
of  pools  and  streams,  perpetually  gliding  and  whirl- 
ing about  in  a  sore  of  complicated  dance.  They 
looked  very  small  at  a  height  of  a  couple  of  hundred 
feet  from  the  ground,  and  their  smallness  and  num- 
berf  and  lively  and  eccentric  motions  made  them  very 
insect-like. 

The  starlings  and  sparrows  were  in  a  small  minority 
among  the  breeders,  but  including  these  there  were 
seven  species  in  all,  and  as  far  as  I  could  make  out 
numbered  about  three  hundred  and  fifty  birds — ^prob- 
ably the  largest  wild  bird  colony  on  any  building  in 
England. 

Nor  could  birds  in  all  this  land  find  a  more  beautiful 
building  to  nest  on,  unless  I  except  Wells  Cathedral 
solely  on  account  of  its  west  front,  beloved  of  daws, 

231 


Afoot  in  England 

and  where  their  numerous  black  company  have  so 
fine  an  appearance.  Wells  has  its  west  front;  Salis- 
bury, so  vast  in  size,  is  yet  a  marvel  of  beauty  in  its 
entirety;  and  seeing  it  as  I  now  did  every  day  and 
wanting  nothing  better,  I  wondered  at  my  want  of 
enthusiasm  on  a  previous  visit.  Still,  to  me,  the 
bird  company,  the  sight  of  their  airy  gambols  and 
their  various  voices,  from  the  deep  human-like  dove 
tone  to  the  perpetual  subdued  rippling,  running-water 
sound  of  the  aerial  martins,  must  always  be  a  prin- 
cipal element  in  the  beautiful  effect.  Nor  do  I  know 
a  building  where  Nature  has  done  more  in  enhancing 
the  loveliness  of  man's  work  with  her  added  colouring. 
The  way  too  in  which  the  colours  are  distributed  is  an 
example  of  Nature's  most  perfect  artistry;  on  the 
lower,  heavier  buttressed  parts,  where  the  darkest 
hues  should  be,  we  find  the  browns  and  rust-reds  of 
the  minute  aerial  alga,  mixed  with  the  greys  of  lichen, 
these  darker  stainings  extending  upwards  to  a  height 
of  fifty  or  sixty  feet,  in  places  higher,  then  giving  place 
to  more  delicate  hues,  the  pale  tender  greens  and 
greenish  greys,  in  places  tinged  with  yellow,  the  co- 
lours always  appearing  brightest  on  the  smooth  sur- 
face between  the  windows  and  sculptured  parts.  The 
effect  depends  a  good  deal  on  atmosphere  and  weather : 
on  a  day  of  flying  clouds  and  a  blue  sky,  with  a  bril- 
laint  sunshine  on  the  vast  building  after  a  shower, 
the  colouring  is  most  beautiful.  It  varies  more  than 
in  the  case  of  colour  in  the  material  itself  or  of  pig- 
ments, because  it  is  a  "living"  colour,  as  Crabbe  rightly 
says  in  his  lumbering  verse : — 

232 


Salisbury  Revisited 

The  living  stains,  which  Nature's  hand  alone, 
Profuse  of  life,  pours  out  upon  the  stone. 

Greys,  greens,  yellows,  and  browns  and  rust-reds 
are  but  the  colours  of  a  variety  of  lowly  vegetable 
forms,  mostly  lichens  and  the  aerial  alga  called  iolithus. 

Without  this  colouring,  its  ''living  stains,"  Salis- 
bury would  not  have  fascinated  me  as  it  did  during 
this  last  visit.  It  would  have  left  me  cold  though  all 
the  architects  and  artists  had  assured  me  that  it  was 
the  most  perfectly  beautiful  building  on  earth. 

I  also  found  an  increasing  charm  in  the  interior, 
and  made  the  discovery  that  I  could  go  oftener  and 
spend  more  hours  in  this  cathedral  without  a  sense  of 
fatigue  or  depression  than  in  any  other  one  known  to 
me,  because  it  has  less  of  that  peculiar  character  which 
we  look  for  and  almost  invariably  find  in  our  cathe- 
drals. It  has  not  the  rich  sombre  majesty,  the  dim 
religious  light  and  heavy  vault-like  atmosphere  of  the 
other  great  fanes.  So  airy  and  light  is  it  that  it  is 
almost  like  being  out  of  doors.  You  do  not  experience 
that  instantaneous  change,  as  of  a  curtain  being  drawn 
excluding  the  light  and  air  of  day  and  of  being  shut 
in,  which  you  have  on  entering  other  religious  houses. 
This  is  due,  first,  to  the  vast  size  of  the  interior,  the 
immense  length  of  the  nave,  and  the  unobstructed 
view  one  has  inside  owing  to  the  removal  by  the  "van- 
dal" Wyatt  of  the  old  ponderous  stone  screen — an 
act  for  which  I  bless  while  all  others  curse  his  memory; 
secondly,  to  the  comparatively  small  amount  of  stained 
glass  there  is  to  intercept  the  light.  So  graceful  and 
beautiful  is  the  interior  that  it  can  bear  the  light,  and 

233 


Afoot  in  England 

light  suits  It  best,  just  as  a  twilight  best  suits  Exeter 
and  Winchester  and  other  cathedrals  with  heavy 
sculptured  roofs.  One  marvels  at  a  building  so  vast 
in  size  which  yet  produces  the  effect  of  a  palace  in 
fairyland,  or  of  a  cathedral  not  built*  with  hands  but 
brought  into  existence  by  a  miracle. 

I  began  to  think  it  not  safe  to  stay  in  that  place  too 
long  lest  It  should  compel  me  to  stay  there  always  or 
cause  me  to  feel  dissatisfied  and  homesick  when  away. 

But  the  interior  of  itself  would  never  have  won 
me,  as  I  had  not  expected  to  be  won  by  any  building 
made  by  man;  and  from  the  inside  I  would  pass  out 
only  to  find  a  fresh  charm  in  that  part  where  Nature 
had  come  more  to  man's  aid. 

Walking  on  the  cathedral  green  one  morning,  glanc- 
ing from  time  to  time  at  the  vast  building  and  its  var- 
ious delicate  shades  of  colour,  I  asked  myself  why  I 
kept  my  eyes  as  if  on  purpose  away  from  It  most  of 
the  time,  now  on  the  trees,  then  on  the  turf,  and  again 
on  some  one  walking  there — ^why.  In  fact,  I  allowed 
myself  only  an  occasional  glance  at  the  object  I  was 
there  solely  to  look  at.  I  knew  well  enough,  but  had 
never  put  It  into  plain  words  for  my  own  satisfaction. 

We  are  all  pretty  familiar  from  experience  with  the 
limitations  of  the  sense  of  smell  and  the  fact  that 
agreeable  odours  please  us  only  fitfully;  the  sensation 
comes  as  a  pleasing  shock,  a  surprise,  and  is  quickly 
gone.  If  we  attempt  to  keep  it  for  some  time  by 
deliberately  smelling  a  fragrant  flower  or  any  perfume, 
we  begin  to  have  a  sense  of  failure  as  if  we  had  ex- 
hausted  the   sense,   keen   as  It   was   a  moment  ago. 

234 


Salisbury  Revisited 

There  must  be  an  Interval  of  rest  for  the  nerve  be- 
fore the  sensation  can  be  renewed  in  its  first  freshness. 
Now  it  is  the  same,  though  in  a  less  degree,  with  the 
more  important  sense  of  sight.  We  look  long  and 
steadily  at  a  thing  to  know  it,  and  the  longer  and  more 
fixedly  wc  look  the  better,  if  it  engages  the  reasoning 
faculties;  but  an  aesthetic  pleasure  cannot  be  Increased 
or  retained  In  that  way.  We  must  look,  merely  glanc- 
ing as  it  were,  and  look  again,  and  then  again,  with  in- 
tervals, receiving  the  Image  in  the  brain  even  as  we 
receive  the  "nimble  emanation"  of  a  flower,  and  the 
image  Is  all  the  brighter  for  coming  Intermittently.  In 
a  large  prospect  we  are  not  conscious  of  this  limitation 
because  of  the  wideness  of  the  field  and  the  number 
and  variety  of  objects  or  points  of  interest  in  it; 
the  vision  roams  hither  and  thither  over  it  and  receives 
a  continuous  stream  or  series  of  pleasing  impressions; 
but  to  gaze  fixedly  at  the  most  beautiful  object  in  na- 
ture or  art  does  but  diminish  the  pleasure.  Practically 
it  ceases  to  be  beautiful  and  only  recovers  the  first  effect 
after  we  have  given  the  mind  an  interval  of  rest. 

Strolling  about  the  green  with  this  thought  in  my 
mind,  I  began  to  pay  attention  to  the  movements  of  a 
man  who  was  manifestly  there  with  the  same  object 
as  myself — to  look  at  the  cathedral.  I  had  seen  him 
there  for  quite  half  an  hour,  and  now  began  to  be 
amused  at  the  emphatic  manner  In  which  he  displayed 
his  Interest  in  the  building.  He  walked  up  and  down 
the  entire  length  and  would  then  back  away  a  distance 
of  a  hundred  yards  from  the  walls  and  stare  up  at  the 
spire,  then  slowly  approach,  still  gazing  up,  until  com- 

235 


Afoot  in  England 

ing  to  a  stop  when  quite  near  the  wall  he  would  remain 
with  his  eyes  still  fixed  aloft,  the  back  of  his  head  al- 
most resting  on  his  back  between  his  shoulders.  His 
hat  somehow  kept  on  his  head,  but  his  attitude  re- 
minded me  of  a  saying  of  the  Arabs  who,  to  give  an 
idea  of  the  height  of  a  great  rock  or  other  tall  object, 
say  that  to  look  up  at  it  causes  your  turban  to  fall  off. 
The  Americans,  when  they  were  chewers  of  tobacco, 
had  a  different  expression;  they  said  that  to  look  up  at 
so  tall  a  thing  caused  the  tobacco  juice  to  run  down 
your  throat. 

His  appearance  when  I  approached  him  interested 
me  too.  His  skin  was  the  color  of  old  brown  leather 
and  he  had  a  big  arched  nose,  clear  light  blue  very 
shrewd  eyes,  and  a  big  fringe  or  hedge  of  ragged  white 
beard  under  his  chin;  and  he  was  dressed  in  a  new  suit 
of  rough  dark  brown  tweeds,  evidently  home-made. 
When  I  spoke  to  him,  saying  something  about  the  ca- 
thedral, he  joyfully  responded  in  broadest  Scotch.  It 
was,  he  said,  the  first  English  cathedral  he  had  ever 
seen  and  he  had  never  seen  anything  made  by  man  to 
equal  it  in  beauty.  He  had  come,  he  told  me,  straight 
from  his  home  and  birthplace,  a  small  village  in  the 
north  of  Scotland,  shut  out  from  the  world  by  great 
hills  where  the  heather  grew  knee-deep.  He  had 
never  been  in  England  before,  and  had  come  directly  to 
SaHsbury  on  a  visit  to  a  relation. 

"Well,"  I  said,  "now  you  have  looked  at  it  outside 
come  in  with  me  and  see  the  interior." 

But  he  refused:  it  was  enough  for  one  day  to  see  ^ 
the  outside  of  such  a  building:  he  wanted  no  mcjre  just 

236 


Salisbury  Revisited 

then.  To-morrow  would  be  soon  enough  to  see  it  in- 
side; it  would  be  the  Sabbath  and  he  would  go  and 
worship  there. 

"Are  you  an  Anglican?"  I  asked. 

He  replied  that  there  were  no  Anglicans  in  his  vil- 
lage. They  had  two  Churches — the  Church  of  Scot- 
land and  the  Free  Church. 

"And  what,"  said  I,  "will  your  minister  say  to  your 
going  to  worship  in  a  cathedral?  We  have  all  de- 
nominations here  in  Salisbury,  and  you  will  perhaps 
find  a  Presbyterian  place  to  worship  in." 

'Now  it's  strange  your  saying  that!"  he  returned, 
with  a  dry  little  laugh.  "I've  just  had  a  letter  from 
him  the  morning  and  he  writes  on  this  varra  subject. 
'Let  me  advise  you,'  he  tells  me  in  the  letter,  'to  attend 
the  service  in  Salisbury  Cathedral.  Nae  doot,'  he 
says,  'there  are  many  things  in  it  you'll  disapprove 
of,  but  not  everything  perhaps,  and  I'd  like  ye  to  go.  '  " 

I  was  a  little  sorry  for  him  next  day  when  we  had 
an  ordination  service,  very  long,  complicated,  and,  I 
should  imagine,  exceedingly  difficult  to  follow  by  a 
wild  Presbyterian  from  the  hills.  He  probably  dis- 
approved of  most  of  it,  but  I  greatly  admired  him 
for  refusing  to  see  anything  more  of  the  cathedral  than 
the  outside  on  the  first  day.  His  method  was  better 
than  that  of  an  American  (from  Indiana,  he  told  me) 
I  met  the  following  day  at  the  hotel.  He  gave  two 
hours  and  a  half,  including  attendance  at  the  morning 
service,  to  the  cathedral,  inside  and  out,  then  rushed 
off  for  an  hour  at  Stonehenge,  fourteen  miles  away, 
on  a  hired  bicycle.     I  advised  him  to  take  another  day 

237 


Afoot  in  England 

— I  did  not  want  to  frighten  him  by  saying  a  week — 
and  he  replied  that  that  would  make  him  miss  Winches- 
ter. After  q^cling  back  from  Stonehenge  he  would 
catch  a  train  to  Winchester  and  get  there  in  time  to 
have  some  minutes  in  the  cathedral  before  the  doors 
closed.  He  was  due  in  London  next  morning.  He 
had  already  missed  Durham  Cathedral  in  the  north 
through  getting  interested  in  and  wasting  too  much 
time  over  some  place  when  he  was  going  there. 
Again,  he  had  missed  Exeter  Cathedral  in  the  south, 
and  it  would  be  a  little  too  bad  to  miss  Winchester 
too! 


238 


Chapter  Twenty-One:  Stonekenge 

That  American  from  Indiana  I  As  it  was  market  day 
at  Salisbury  I  asked  him  before  we  parted  if  he  had 
seen  the  market,  also  if  they  had  market  days  in  the 
country  towns  in  his  State?  He  said  he  had  looked 
in  at  the  market  on  his  way  back  from  the  cathedral. 
No,  they  had  had  nothing  of  the  kind  in  his  State. 
Indiana  was  covered  with  a  network  of  railroads  and 
electric  tram  lines,  and  all  country  produce,  down  to 
the  last  new-laid  egg,  was  collected  and  sent  off  and 
conveyed  each  morning  to  the  towns,  where  it  was 
always  market  day. 

How  sad!  thought  I.  Poor  Indiana,  that  once 
had  wildness  and  romance  and  memories  of  a  vanished 
race,  and  has  now  only  its  pretty  meaningless  name  I 

''I  suppose,"  he  said,  before  getting  on  his  bicycle, 
"there's  nothing  beside  the  cathedral  and  Stonehenge 
to  see  in  Wiltshire  ?" 

*'No,  nothing,"  I  returned,  *'and  you'll  think  the 
time  wasted  in  seeing  Stonehenge." 

"Why?" 

"Only  a  few  old  stones  to  see." 

But  he  went,  and  I  have  no  doubt  did  think  the  time 
wasted,  but  it  would  be  some  consolation  to  him,  on 
the  other  side,  to  be  able  to  say  that  he  had  seen  it  with 
his  own  eyes. 


Afoot  in  England 

How  did  these  same  "few  old  stones"  strike  me  on 
a  first  visit?  It  was  one  of  the  greatest  disillusion- 
ments  I  ever  experienced.  Stonehenge  looked  small 
— pitiably  small!  For  it  is  a  fact  that  mere  size  is 
very  much  to  us,  in  spite  of  all  the  teachings  of  science. 
We  have  heard  of  Stonehenge  in  our  childhood  or  boy- 
hood— that  great  building  of  unknown  origin  and  an- 
tiquity, its  circles  of  stones,  some  still  standing,  others 
lying  prostrate,  like  the  stupendous  half-shattered 
skeleton  of  a  giant  or  monster  whose  stature  reached 
to  the  clouds.  It  stands,  we  read  or  were  told,  on 
Salisbury  Plain.  To  my  uninformed,  childish  mind  a 
plain  anywhere  was  like  the  plain  on  which  I  was  born 
— an  absolutely  level  area  stretching  away  on  all  sides 
into  infinitude;  and  although  the  effect  is  of  a  great 
extent  of  earth,  we  know  that  we  actually  see  very  little 
of  it,  that  standing  on  a  level  plain  we  have  a  very 
near  horizon.  On  this  account  any  large  object  appear- 
ing on  it,  such  as  a  horse  or  tree  or  a  big  animal,  looks 
very  much  bigger  than  it  would  on  land  with  a  broken 
surface. 

Oddly  enough,  my  impossible  Stonehenge  was  de- 
rived from  a  sober  description  and  an  accompanying 
plate  in  a  sober  work — a  gigantic  folio  in  two  volumes 
entitled  A  New  System  of  Geography,  dated  some  time 
in  the  eighteenth  century.  How  this  ponderous  work 
ever  came  to  be  out  on  the  pampas,  over  six  thousand 
miles  from  the  land  of  its  origin,  is  a  thing  to  wonder 
at.  I  remember  that  the  Stonehenge  plate  greatly 
impressed  me  and  that  I  sacrilegiously  cut  it  out  of 
the  book  so  as  to  have  it ! 

240 


Stonehenge 

Now  we  know,  our  reason  tells  us  continually,  that 
the  mental  pictures  formed  in  childhood  are  false 
because  the  child  and  man  have  different  standards, 
and  furthermore  the  child  mind  exaggerates  every- 
thing; nevertheless,  such  pictures  persist  until  the 
scene  or  object  so  visualized  is  actually  looked  upon 
and  the  old  image  shattered.  This  refers  to  scenes 
visualized  with  the  inner  eye,  but  the  disillusion  is  al- 
most as  great  when  we  return  to  a  home  left  in  child- 
hood or  boyhood  and  look  on  it  once  more  with  the 
man's  eyes.  How  small  it  is !  How  diminished  the 
hills,  and  the  trees  that  grew  to  such  a  vast  height, 
whose  tops  once  seemed  "so  close  against  the  sky" — 
what  poor  little  trees  they  now  are!  And  the  house 
itself,  how  low  it  is;  and  the  rooms  that  seemed  so 
wide  and  lofty,  where  our  footfalls  and  childish  voices 
sounded  as  in  some  vast  hall,  how  little  and  how  mean 
they  look  I 

Children,  they  are  very  little, 

the  poet  says,  and  they  measure  things  by  their  size; 
but  it  seems  odd  that  unless  we  grow  up  amid  the 
scenes  where  our  first  impressions  were  received  they 
should  remain  unaltered  in  the  adult  mind.  The  most 
amusing  instance  of  a  false  picture  of  something  seen 
in  childhood  and  continuing  through  life  I  have  met 
was  that  of  an  Italian  peasant  I  knew  in  South  America. 
He  liked  to  talk  to  me  about  the  cranes,  those  great 
and  wonderful  birds  he  had  become  acquainted  with 
in  childhood  in  his  home  on  the  plains  of  Lombardy. 
The  birds,  of  course,  only  appeared  in  autumn  and 

241 


Afoot  in  England 

spring  when  migrating,  and  passed  over  at  a  vast 
height  above  the  earth.  These  birds,  he  said,  were  so 
big  and  had  such  great  wings  that  if  they  came  down 
on  the  flat  earth  they  would  be  incapable  of  rising, 
hence  they  only  alighted  on  the  tops  of  high  moun- 
tains, and  as  there  was  nothing  for  them  to  eat  in  such 
places,  it  being  naked  rock  and  ice,  they  were  com- 
pelled to  subsist  on  each  other's  droppings.  Now  it 
came  to  pass  that  one  year  during  his  childhood  a 
crane,  owing  to  some  accident,  came  down  to  the 
ground  near  his  home.  The  whole  population  of  the 
village  turned  out  to  see  so  wonderful  a  bird,  and  were 
amazed  at  Its  size;  it  was,  he  said,  the  strangest  sight 
he  had  ever  looked  on.  How  big  was  it?  I  asked 
him;  was  It  as  big  as  an  ostrich?  An  ostrich,  he  said, 
was  nothing  to  it;  I  might  as  well  ask  him  how  it 
compared  with  a  lapwing.  He  could  give  me  no 
measurements:  it  happened  when  he  was  a  child;  he 
had  forgotten  the  exact  size,  but  he  had  seen  it  with  his 
own  eyes  and  he  could  see  it  now  in  his  mind — the  big- 
gest bird  In  the  world.  Very  well,  I  said,  if  he  could 
see  it  plainly  In  his  mind  he  could  give  some  rough 
idea  of  the  wing-spread — how  much  would  It  measure 
from  tip  to  tip  ?  He  said  it  was  perhaps  fifty  yards — 
perhaps  a  good  deal  more ! 

A  similar  trick  was  played  by  my  mind  about  Stone- 
henge.  As  a  child  I  had  stood  In  Imagination  before 
It,  gazing  up  awestruck  on  those  stupendous  stones  or 
climbing  and  crawling  like  a  small  beetle  on  them. 
And  what  at  last  did  I  see  with  my  physical  eyes? 
Walking  over  the  downs,  miscalled  a  plain,  anticipa- 

242 


Stonehenge 

ting  something  tremendous,  I  finally  got  away  from 
the  woods  at  Amesbury  and  spied  the  thing  I  sought 
before  me  far  away  on  the  slope  of  a  green  down, 
and  stood  still  and  then  sat  down  in  pure  astonishment. 
Was  this  Stonehenge — this  cluster  of  poor  little  grey 
stones,  looking  in  the  distance  like  a  small  flock  of 
sheep  or  goats  grazing  on  that  immense  down !  How 
incredibly  insignificant  it  appeared  to  me,  dwarfed 
by  its  surroundings — woods  and  groves  and  farm- 
houses, and  by  the  vast  extent  of  rolling  down  country 
visible  at  that  point.  It  was  only  when  I  had  recov- 
ered from  the  first  shock,  when  I  had  got  to  the  very 
place  and  stood  among  the  stones,  that  I  began  to 
experience  something  of  the  feeling  appropriate  to 
the  occasion. 

The  feeling,  however,  must  have  been  very  slight, 
since  it  permitted  me  to  become  interested  in  the  ap- 
pearance and  actions  of  a  few  sparrows  inhabiting 
the  temple.  The  common  sparrow  Is  parasitical  on 
man,  consequently  but  rarely  found  at  any  distance 
from  human  habitations,  and  it  seemed  a  little  strange 
to  find  them  at  home  at  Stonehenge  on  the  open  plain. 
They  were  very  active  carrying  up  straws  and  feathers 
to  the  crevices  on  the  trioliths  where  the  massive  Im- 
posts rest  on  the  upright  stones.  I  noticed  the  birds 
because  of  their  bright  appearance :  they  were  lighter 
coloured  than  any  sparrows  I  have  ever  seen,  and  one 
cock  bird  when  flying  to  and  fro  In  the  sunlight  looked 
almost  white.  I  formed  the  idea  that  this  small  col- 
ony of  about  a  dozen  birds  had  been  long  established 
at  that  place,  and  that  the  change  In  their  colouring 

243 


Afoot  in  England 

was  a  direct  result  of  the  unusual  conditions  in  which 
they  existed,  where  there  was  no  shade  and  shelter  of 
trees  and  bushes,  and  they  were  perpetually  exposed 
for  generations  to  the  full  light  of  the  wide  open  sky. 

On  revisiting  Stonehenge  after  an  interval  of  some 
years  I  looked  for  my  sparrows  and  failed  to  find 
them.  It  was  at  the  breeding-season,  when  they  would 
have  been  there  had  they  still  existed.  No  doubt 
the  little  colony  had  been  extirpated  by  a  sparrow-hawk 
or  by  the  human  guardians  of  "The  Stones,"  as  the 
temple  is  called  by  the  natives. 

It  remains  to  tell  of  my  latest  visit  to  "The  Stones." 
I  had  resolved  to  go  once  in  my  life  with  the  current 
or  crowd  to  see  the  sun  rise  on  the  morning  of  the 
longest  day  at  that  place.  This  custom  or  fashion  is 
a  declining  one:  ten  or  twelve  years  ago,  as  many  as 
one  or  two  thousand  persons  would  assemble  during 
the  night  to  wait  the  great  event,  but  the  watchers 
have  now  diminished  to  a  few  hundreds,  and  on  some 
years  to  a  few  scores.  The  fashion,  no  doubt,  had  its 
origin  when  Sir  Norman  Lockyer's  theories,  about 
Stonehenge  as  a  Sun  Temple  placed  so  that  the  first 
rays  of  sun  on  the  longest  day  of  the  year  should  fall 
on  the  centre  of  the  so-called  altar  or  sacrificial  stone 
placed  in  the  middle  of  the  circle,  began  to  be  noised 
about  the  country,  and  accepted  by  every  one  as  the 
true  reading  of  an  ancient  riddle.  But  I  gather  from 
natives  in  the  district  that  it  is  an  old  custom  for 
people  to  go  and  watch  for  sunrise  on  the  morning 
of  June  21.  A  dozen  or  a  score  of  natives,  mostly 
old  shepherds  and  labourers  who  Hved  near,  would  go 

244 


Stonehenge 

and  sit  there  for  a  few  hours  and  after  sunrise  wouldlf 
trudge  home,  but  whether  or  not  there  Is  any  tradition 
or  belief  associated  with  the  custom  I  have  not  ascer- 
tained. "How  long  has  the  custom  existed?"  I  asked 
a  field  labourer.  "From  the  time  of  the  old  people 
— the  Druids,"  he  answered,  and  I  gave  it  up. 

To  be  near  the  spot  I  went  to  stay  at  Shrewton,  a 
downland  village  four  miles  from  "The  Stones";  or 
rather  a  group  of  ^yt  pretty  little  villages,  almost 
touching  but  distinct,  like  five  flowers  or  five  berries 
on  a  single  stem,  each  with  its  own  old  church  and 
individual  or  parish  Hfe.  It  Is  a  pretty  tree-shaded 
place,  full  of  the  crooning  sound  of  turtle-doves,  hid- 
den among  the  wide  silent  open  downs  and  watered  by 
a  clear  swift  stream,  or  winter  bourne,  which  dries  up 
during  the  heats  of  late  summer,  and  flows  again  after 
the  autumn  rains,  "when  the  springs  rise"  in  the  chalk 
hills.  While  here,  I  rambled  on  the  downs  and  haunted 
"The  Stones."  The  road  from  Shrewton  to  Ames- 
bury,  a  straight  white  band  lying  across  a  green  coun- 
try, passes  within  a  few  yards  of  Stonehenge:  on  the 
right  side  of  this  narrow  line  the  land  is  all  private 
property,  but  on  the  left  side  and  as  far  as  one  can  see 
it  mostly  belongs  to  the  War  Ofl^ce  and  is  dotted  over 
with  camps.  I  roamed  about  freely  enough  on  both 
sides,  sometimes  spending  hours  at  a  stretch,  not  only 
on  Government  land  but  "within  bounds,"  for  the 
pleasure  of  spying  on  the  military  from  a  hiding-place 
in  some  pine  grove  or  furze  patch.  I  was  seldom 
challenged,  and  the  sentinels  I  came  across  were  very 
mild-mannered  men;   they  never  ordered  me  away; 

245 


Afoot  in  England 

they  only  said,  or  hinted,  that  the  place  I  was  in  was 
not  supposed  to  be  free  to  the  public. 

I  come  across  many  persons  who  lament  the  recent 
great  change  on  Salisbury  Plain.  It  is  hateful  to 
them;  the  sight  of  the  camp  and  troops  marching 
and  drilling,  of  men  in  khaki  scattered  about  every- 
where over  a  hundred  square  leagues  of  plain;  the 
smoke  of  firing  and  everlasting  booming  of  guns.  It 
is  a  desecration;  the  wild  ancient  charm  of  the  land 
has  been  destroyed  in  their  case,  and  it  sadden^  and 
angers  them.  I  was  pretty  free  from  these  uncom- 
fortable feelings. 

It  is  said  that  one  of  the  notions  the  Japanese  have 
about  the  fox — a  semi-sacred  animal  with  them — is 
that,  if  you  chance  to  see  one  crossing  your  path  in 
the  morning,  all  that  comes  before  your  vision  on 
that  day  will  be  illusion.  As  an  illustration  of  this 
belief  it  is  related  that  a  Japanese  who  witnessed  the 
eruption  of  Krakatoa,  when  the  heavens  were  covered 
with  blackness  and  kindled  with  intermitting  flashes 
and  the  earth  shaken  by  the  detonations,  and  when 
all  others,  thinking  the  end  of  the  world  had  come, 
were  swooning  with  extreme?  fear,  veiwed  it  with- 
out a  tremor  as  a  very  sublime  but  illusory  spectacle. 
For  on  that  very  morning  he  had  seen  a  fox  cross  his 
path. 

A  somewhat  similar  effect  is  produced  on  our  minds 
if  we  havd  what  may  be  called  a  sense  of  historical 
time — a  consciousness  of  the  transitoriness  of  most 
things  human — if  we  see  institutions  and  works  as 
the  branches  on  a  pine  or  larch,  which  fail  and  die 

246 


Stonehenge 

and  fall  away  successively  while  the  tree  itself  lives 
for  ever,  and  if  we  measure  their  duration  not  by  our 
own  few  swift  years,  but  by  the  life  of  nations  and 
races  of  men.  It  is,  I  imagine,  a  sense  capable  of 
cultivation,  and  enables  us  to  look  upon  many  of  man's 
doings  that  would  otherwise  vex  and  pain  us,  and, 
as  some  say,  destroy  all  the  pleasure  of  our  lives, 
not  exactly  as  an  illusion,  as  if  we  were  Japanese  and 
had  seen  a  fox  in  the  morning,  but  at  all  events  in 
what  we  call  a  philosophic  spirit. 

What  troubled  me  most  was  the  consideration  of 
the  effect  of  the  new  conditions  on  the  wild  life  of 
the  plain — or  of  a  very  large  portion  of  it.  I  knew 
of  this  before,  but  it  was  nevertheless  exceedingly 
unpleasant  when  I  came  to  witness  it  myself  when  I 
took  to  spying  on  the  military  as  an  amusement  during 
my  idle  time.  Here  we  have  tens  of  thousands  of 
very  young  men,  boys  in  mind,  the  best  fed,  healthiest, 
happiest  crowd  of  boys  in  all  the  land,  living  in  a  pure 
bracing  atmosphere,  far  removed  from  towns,  and 
their  amusements  and  temptations,  all  mad  for  pleasure 
and  excitement  of  some  kind  to  fill  their  vacant  hours 
each  day  and  their  holidays.  Naturally  they  take  to 
birds'-nesting  and  to  hunting  every  living  thing  they 
encounter  during  their  walks  on  the  downs.  Every 
wild  thing  runs  and  flies  from  them,  and  is  chased 
or  stoned,  the  weak-winged  young  are  captured,  and 
the  nests  picked  or  kicked  up  out  of  the  turf.  In 
this  way  the  creatures  are  being  extirpated,  and  one 
can  foresee  that  when  hares  and  rabbits  are  no  more, 
and  even  the  small  birds  of  the  plain,  larks,  pipits, 

247 


Afoot  in  England 

wheatears,  stonechats,  and  whincats,  have  vanished, 
the  hunters  in  khaki  will  take  to  the  chase  of  yet 
smaller  creatures — crane-flies  and  butterflies  and 
dragon-flies,  and  even  the  fantastic,  elusive  hover-flies 
which  the  hunters  of  little  game  will  perhaps  think 
the  most  entertaining  fly  of  all. 

But  it  would  be  idle  to  grieve  much  at  this  small 
incidental  and  inevitable  result  of  making  use  of  the 
plain  as  a  military  camp  and  training-ground.  The 
old  god  of  war  is  not  yet  dead  and  rotting  on  his  iron 
hills;  he  is  on  the  chalk  hills  with  us  just  now,  walk- 
ing on  the  elastic  turf,  and  one  is  glad  to  mark  in  his 
brown  skin  and  sparkling  eyes  how  thoroughly  alive 
he  is. 

A  little  after  midnight  on  the  morning  of  June  21, 
1908,  a  Shrewton  cock  began  to  crow,  and  that  trum- 
pet sound,  which  I  never  hear  without  a  stirring  of 
the  blood,  on  account  of  old  associations,  informed 
me  that  the  late  moon  had  risen  or  was  about  to  rise, 
linking  the  midsummer  evening  and  morning  twilights, 
and  I  set  off  to  Stonehenge.  It  was  a  fine  still  night, 
without  a  cloud  in  the  pale,  dusky  blue  sky,  thinly 
sprinkled  with  stars,  and  the  crescent  moon  coming 
up  above  the  horizon.  After  the  cock  ceased  crowing 
a  tawny  owl  began  to  hoot,  and  the  long  tremulous  mel- 
low sound  followed  me  for  some  distance  from  the 
village,  and  then  there  was  perfect  silence,  broken 
occasionally  by  the  tinkling  bells  of  a  little  com- 
pany of  cycHsts  speeding  past  towards  "The  Stones." 
I  was  in  no  hurry:  I  only  wished  I  had  started  sooner 

248 


Stonehenge 

to  enjoy  Salisbury  Plain  at  Its  best  time,  when  all 
the  things  which  offend  the  lover  of  nature  are  Invisible 
and  non-existcnt.  Later,  when  the  first  light  began 
to  appear  In  the  east  before  two  o'clock.  It  was  no  false 
dawn,  but  Insensibly  grew  brighter  and  spread  fur- 
ther, until  touches  of  colour,  very  delicate,  palest  am- 
ber, then  tender  yellow  and  rose  and  purple,  began  to 
show.  I  felt  then  as  we  Invariably  feel  on  such  oc- 
casions, when  some  special  motive  has  called  us  forth 
in  time  to  witness  this  heavenly  change,  as  of  a  new 
creation — 

The  miracle  of  diuturnity 
Whose  instancy  unbeds  the  lark, 

that  all  the  days  of  my  life  on  which  I  had  not  wit- 
nessed It  were  wasted  days! 

O  that  unbedding  of  the  lark !  The  world  that  was 
so  still  before  now  all  at  once  had  a  sound;  not  a 
single  song  and  not  In  one  place,  but  a  sound  com- 
posed of  a  thousand  Individual  sounds,  rising  out  of 
the  dark  earth  at  a  distance  on  my  right  hand  and  up 
into  the  dusky  sky,  spreading  far  and  wide  even  as  the 
light  was  spreading  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
heavens — a  sound  as  of  multitudinous  twanging,  gird- 
ing, and  clashing  Instruments,  mingled  with  shrill  pierc- 
ing voices  that  were  not  like  the  voices  of  earthly 
beings.  They  were  not  human  nor  angelic,  but  pas- 
sionless, and  It  was  as  If  the  whole  visible  world, 
the  dim  grassy  plain  and  the  vast  pale  sky  sprinkled 
with  paling  stars,  moonlit  and  dawnlit,  had  found  a 

249 


Afoot  in  England 

voice  to  express  the  mystery  and  glory  of  the 
morning. 

It  was  but  eight  minutes  past  two  o'clock  when  this 
"unbedding  of  the  lark"  began,  and  the  heavenly  music 
lasted  about  fourteen  minutes,  then  died  down  to 
silence,  to  recommence  about  half  an  hour  later.  At 
first  I  wondered  why  the  sound  was  at  a  distance  from 
the  road  on  my  right  hand  and  not  on  my  left  hand 
as  well.  Then  I  remembered  what  I  had  seen  on  that 
side,  how  the  "boys"  at  play  on  Sundays  and  in  fact 
every  day  hunt  the  birds  and  pull  their  nests  out,  and 
I  could  only  conclude  that  the  lark  has  been  pretty  well 
wiped  out  from  all  that  part  of  the  plain  over  which 
the  soldiers  range. 

At  Stonehenge  I  found  a  good  number  of  watchers, 
about  a  couple  of  hundred,  already  assembled,  but 
more  were  coming  in  continually,  and  a  mile  or  so 
of  the  road  to'  Amesbury  visible  from  "The  Stones" 
had  at  times  the  appearance  of  a  ribbon  of  fire  from 
the  lamps  of  this  continuous  stream  of  coming  cyclists. 
Altogether  about  five  to  six  hundred  persons  gathered 
at  "The  Stones,"  mostly  young  men  on  bicycles  who 
came  from  all  the  Wiltshire  towns  within  easy  distance, 
from  Salisbury  to  Bath.  I  had  a  few  good  minutes  at 
the  ancient  temple  when  the  sight  of  the  rude  upright 
stones  looking  black  against  the  moonlit  and  star- 
sprinkled  sky  produced  an  unexpected  feeling  in 
me:  but  the  mood  could  not  last;  the  crowd  was 
too  big  and  noisy,  and  the  noises  they  made  too  sug- 
gestive of  a  Bank  Holiday  crowd  at  the  Crystal 
Palace. 

250 


Stonehenge 

At  three  oVlock  a  ribbon  of  slate-grey  cloud  ap- 
peared above  the  eastern  horizon,  and  broadened  by 
degrees,  and  pretty  soon  made  it  evident  that  the  sun 
would  be  hidden  at  its  rising  at  a  quarter  to  four. 
The  crowd,  however,  was  not  down-hearted;  it  sang 
and  shouted;  and  by  and  by,  just  outside  the  barbed- 
wire  enclosure  a  rabbit  was  unearthed,  and  about 
three  hundred  young  men  with  shrieks  of  excitement 
set  about  its  capture.  It  was  a  lively  scene,  a  general 
scrimmage,  in  which  everyone  was  trying  to  capture  an 
elusive  football  with  ears  and  legs  to  it,  which  went 
darting  and  spinning  about  hither  and  thither  among 
the  multitudinous  legs,  until  earth  compassionately 
opened  and  swallowed  poor  distracted  bunny  up.  It 
was  but  little  better  inside  the  enclosure,  where  the  big 
fallen  stones  behind  the  altar-stone,  in  the  middle,  on 
which  the  first  rays  of  sun  would  fall,  were  taken  pos- 
session of  by  a  crowd  of  young  men  who  sat  and  stood 
packed  together  like  guillemots  on  a  rock.  These  too, 
cheated  by  that  rising  cloud  of  the  spectacle  they  had 
come  so  far  to  see,  wanted  to  have  a  little  fun,  and  be- 
gan to  be  very  obstreperous.  By  and  by  they  found 
out  an  amusement  very  much  to  their  taste. 

Motor-cars  were  now  arriving  every  minute,  bring- 
ing important-looking  persons  who  had  timed  their 
journeys  so  as  to  come  upon  the  scene  a  little  before 
3:45,  when  the  sun  would  show  on  the  horizon;  and 
whenever  one  of  these  big  gentlemen  appeared  within 
the  circle  of  stones,  especially  if  he  was  big  physically 
and  grotesque-looking  in  his  motorist  get-up,  he  was 
greeted  with  a  tremendous  shout.     In  most  cases  he 

251 


Afoot  in  England 

would  start  back  and  stand  still,  astonished  at  such 
an  outburst,  and  then,  concluding  that  the  only  way  to 
save  his  dignity  was  to  face  the  music,  he  would  step 
hurriedly  across  the  green  space  to  hide  himself  be- 
hind the  crowd. 

The  most  amusing  case  was  that  of  a  very  tall 
person  adorned  with  an  exceedingly  long,  bright  red 
beard,  who  had  on  a  Glengarry  cap  and  a  great  shawl 
over  his  overcoat.  The  instant  this  unfortunate  per- 
son stepped  into  the  arena  a  general  wild  cry  of 
"Scotland  for  ever!"  was  raised,  followed  by  such 
cheers  and  yells  that  the  poor  man  actually  staggered 
back  as  if  he  had  received  a  blow,  then  seeing  there 
was  no  other  way  out  of  it,  he  too  rushed  across  the 
open  space  to  lose  himself  among  the  others. 

All  this  proved  very  entertaining,  and  I  was  glad 
to  laugh  with  the  crowd,  thinking  that  after  all  we 
were  taking  a  very  mild  revenge  on  our  hated  enemies, 
the  tyrants  of  the  roads. 

The  fun  over,  I  went  soberly  back  to  my  village, 
and  finding  it  impossible  to  get  to  sleep  I  went  to 
Sunday-morning  service  at  Shrewton  Church.  It  was 
strangely  restful  there  after  that  noisy  morning  crowd 
at  Stonehenge.  The  church  is  white  stone  with  Nor- 
man pillars  and  old  oak  beams  laid  over  the  roof 
painted  or  distempered  blue — a  quiet,  peaceful  blue. 
There  was  also  a  good  deal  of  pleasing  blue  colour  in 
the  glass  of  the  east  window.  The  service  was,  as  I 
almost  invariably  find  it  in  a  village  church,  beautiful 
and  impressive.  Listening  to  the  music  of  prayer 
and  praise,  with  some  natural  outdoor  sound  to  fill 

252 


Stonehenge 

up  the  pauses — the  distant  Crow  of  a  cock  or  the 
song  of  some  bird  close  by — a  corn-bunting  or  wren 
or  hedge-sparrow — and  the  bright  sunlight  filling  the 
interior,  I  felt  as  much  refreshed  as  if  kind  nature's 
sweet  restorer,  balmy  sleep,  had  visited  me  that 
morning.  The  sermon  was  nothing  to  me;  I  scarcely 
heard  it,  but  understood  that  it  was  about  the  Incar- 
nation and  the  perfection  of  the  plan  of  salvation  and 
the  unreasonableness  of  the  Higher  Criticism  and  of 
all  who  doubt  because  they  do  not  understand.  I  re- 
membered vaguely  that  on  three  successive  Sundays  in 
three  village  churches  in  the  wilds  of  Wiltshire  I  had 
heard  sermons  preached  on  and  against  the  Higher 
Criticism.  I  thought  it  would  have  been  better  in 
this  case  if  the  priest  had  chosen  to  preach  on  Stone- 
henge and  had  said  that  he  devoutly  wished  we  were 
sun-worshippers,  like  the  Persians,  as  well  as  Christ- 
ians ;  also  that  we  were  Buddhists,  and  worshippers  of 
our  dead  ancestors  like  the  Chinese,  and  that  we  were 
pagans  and  idolaters  who  bow  down  to  sticks  and 
stones,  if  all  these  added  cults  would  serve  to  make 
us  more  reverent.  And  I  wish  he  could  have  said 
that  it  was  as  irreligious  to  go  to  Stonehenge,  that 
ancient  temple  which  man  raised  to  the  unknown  god 
thousands  of  years  ago,  to  indulge  in  noise  and  horse- 
play at  the  hour  of  sunrise,  as  it  would  be  to  go  to 
Salisbury  Cathedral  for  such  a  purpose. 


253 


Chapter  Twenty-Two:    The  Village 
and  "The  Stones'' 

My  experiences  at  "The  Stones"  had  left  me  with  the 
idea  that  but  for  the  distracting  company  the  hours  I 
spent  there  would  have  been  very  sweet  and  precious 
in  spite  of  the  cloud  in  the  east.  Why  then,  I  asked, 
not  go  back  on  another  morning,  when  I  would  have 
the  whole  place  to  myself?  If  a  cloud  did  not  matter 
much  it  would  matter  still  less  that  it  was  not  the  day 
of  the  year  when  the  red  disc  flames  on  the  watcher's 
sight  directly  over  that  outstanding  stone  and  casts 
first  a  shadow  then  a  ray  of  light  on  the  altar.  In 
the  end  I  did  not  say  good-bye  to  the  village  on  that 
day,  but  settled  down  to  listen  to  the  tales  of  my 
landlady,  or  rather  to  another  instalment  of  her  life- 
story  and  to  further  chapters  in  the  domestic  history 
of  those  five  small  villages  in  one.  I  had  already 
been  listening  to  her  every  evening,  and  at  odd  times 
during  the  day,  for  over  a  week,  at  first  with  interest, 
then  a  little  impatiently.  I  was  impatient  at  being 
kept  in,  so  to  speak.  Out-of-doors  the  world  was  full 
of  light  and  heat,  full  of  sounds  of  wild  birds  and 
fragrance  of  flowers  and  new-mown  hay;  there  were 
also  delightful  children  and  some  that  were  anything 
but  delightful — dirty,  ragged  little  urchins  of  the 
slums.  For  even  these  small  rustic  villages  have 
their  slums;  and  it  was  now  the  time  when  the  young 
birds  were  fluttering  out  of  their  nests — their  hunger- 

254 


The  Village  and  **The  Stones'* 

cries  could  be  heard  everywhere ;  and  the  ragged  little 
barbarians  were  wild  with  excitement,  chasing  and 
stoning  the  flutterers  to  slay  them;  or  when  they  suc- 
ceeded in  capturing  one  without  first  having  broken 
its  wings  or  legs  it  was  to  put  it  in  a  dirty  cage  in  a 
squalid  cottage  to  see  it  perish  miserably  in  a  day  or 
two.  Perhaps  I  succeeded  ini  saving  two  or  three 
threatened  lives  in  the  lanes  and  secret  green 
places  by  the  stream;  perhaps  I  didn't;  but  in  any 
case  it  was  some  satisfaction  to  have  made  the 
attempt. 

Now  all  this  made  me  a  somewhat  impatient  listener 
to  the  village  tales — the  old  unhappy  things,  for 
they  were  mostly  old  and  always  unhappy;  yet  in  the 
end  I  had  to  listen.  It  was  her  eyes  that  did  it.  At 
times  they  had  an  intensity  in  their  gaze  which  made 
them  almost  uncanny,  somethin^g  like  the  luminous 
eyes  of  an  animal  hungrily  fixed  on  its  prey.  They 
held  me,  though  not  because  they  glittered:  I  could 
have  gone  away  if  I  had  thought  proper,  and  remained 
to  listen  only  because  the  meaning  of  that  singular 
look  in  her  grey-green  eyes,  which  came  into  them 
whenever  I  grew  restive,  had  dawned  on  my  careless 
mind. 

She  was  an  old  woman  with  snow-white  hair,  which 
contrasted  rather  strangely  with  her  hard  red  colour; 
but  her  skin  was  smooth,  her  face  well  shaped,  with 
fine  acquiline  features.  No  doubt  it  had  been  a  very 
handsome  face  though  never  beautiful,  I  imagine;  it 
was  too  strong  and  firm  and  resolute ;  too  like  the  face 
of  some  man  we  see,  which,  though  we  have  but  a  mo- 

255 


Afoot  in  England 

mentary  sight  of  it  in  a  passing  crowd,  affects  us  like  a 
sudden  puff  of  icy-cold  air — the  revelation  of  a  singular 
and  powerful  personality.  Yet  she  was  only  a  poor 
old  broken-down  woman  in  a  Wiltshire  village,  held 
fast  in  her  chair  by  a  hopeless  infirmity.  With  her 
legs  paralysed  she  was  like  that  prince  in  the  Eastern 
tale  on  whom  an  evil  spell  had  been  cast,  turning  the 
lower  half  of  his  body  into  marble.  But  she  did  not, 
like  the  prince,  shed  incessant  tears  and  lament  her  mis- 
erable destiny  with  a  loud  voice.  She  was  patient  and 
cheerful  always,  resigned  to  the  will  of  Heaven,  and 
— a  strange  thing  this  to  record  of  an  old  woman  in  a 
village ! — she  would  never  speak  of  her  ailments.  But 
though  powerless  in  body  her  mind  was  vigorous  and 
active  teeming  with  memories  of  all  the  vicissitudes  of 
her  exceedingly  eventful,  busy  life,  from  the  time  when 
she  left  her  village  as  a  young  girl  to  fight  her  way  in 
the  great  world  to  her  return  to  end  her  life  in  it,  old 
and  broken,  her  fight  over,  her  children  and  grand- 
children dead  or  grown  up  and  scattered  about  the 
earth. 

Chance  having  now  put  me  in  her  way,  she  con- 
cluded after  a  few  preliminary  or  tentative  talks  that 
she  had  got  hold  of  an  ideal  listener;  but  she  feared 
to  lose  me — she  wanted  me  to  go  on  listening  for 
ever.  That  was  the  reason  of  that  painfully  intense 
hungry  look  in  her  eyes;  it  was  because  she  discovered 
certain  signs  of  lassitude  or  impatience  in  me,  a  desire 
to  get  up  and  go  away  and  refresh  myself  in  the  sun 
and  wind.  Poor  old  woman,  she  could  not  spring 
upon  and  hold  me  fast  when  I  attempted  to  move 

256 


The  Village  and  ''The  Stones'' 

off,  or  pluck  me  back  with  her  claws;  she  could  only 
gaze  with  fiercely  pleading  eyes  and  say  nothing; 
and  so,  without  being  fascinated,  I  very  often  sat  on 
listening  still  when  I  would  gladly  have  been  out-of- 
doors. 

She  was  a  good  fluent  talker;  moreover,  she  studied 
her  listener,  and  finding  that  my  interest  in  her  own 
interminable  story  was  becoming  exhausted  she  sought 
for  other  subjects,  chiefly  the  strange  events  in  the 
lives  of  men  and  women  who  had  lived  in  the  village 
and  who  had  long  been  turned  to  dust.  They  were 
all  more  or  less  tragical  in  character,  and  it  astonished 
me  to  think  that  I  had  stayed  in  a  dozen  or  twenty, 
perhaps  forty,  villages  in  Wiltshire,  and  had  heard 
stories  equally  strange  and  moving  in  pretty  well 
every  one  of  them. 

If  each  of  these  small  centres  possessed  a  scribe  of 
genius,  or  at  any  rate  one  with  a  capacity  for  taking 
pains,  who  would  collect  and  print  in  proper  form 
these  remembered  events,  every  village  would  in 
time  have  its  own  little  library  of  local  history,  the 
volumes  labelled  respectively,  A  Village  Tragedy,  The 
Fields  of  Dulditch,  Lifers  Little  Ironies,  Children's 
Children,  and  various  others  whose  titles  every  reader 
will  be  able  to  supply. 

The  effect  of  a  long  spell  of  listening  to  these  un- 
written tragedies  was  sometimes  strong  enough  to 
cloud  my  reason,  for  on  going  directly  forth  into  the 
bright  sunshine  and  listening  to  the  glad  sounds  which 
filled  the  air,  it  would  seem  that  this  earth  was  a 
paradise  and  that  all  creation  rejoiced  in  everlasting 

257 


Afoot  in  England 

happiness  excepting  man  alone  who — mysterious 
being! — was  born  to  trouble  and  disaster  as  the 
sparks  fly  upwards.  A  pure  delusion,  due  to  our 
universal  and  ineradicable  passion  for  romance  and 
tragedy.  Tell  a  man  of  a  hundred  humdrum  lives 
which  run  their  quiet  contented  course  in  this  village, 
and  the  monotonous  unmoving  story,  or  hundred 
stories,  will  go  in  at  one  ear  and  out  at  the  other. 
Therefore  such  stories  are  not  told  and  not  remem- 
bered. But  that  which  stirs  our  pity  and  terror — the 
frustrate  life,  the  glorious  promise  which  was  not  ful- 
filled, the  broken  hearts  and  broken  fortunes,  and 
passion,  crime,  remorse,  retribution — all  this  prints 
itself  on  the  mind,  and  every  such  life  is  remembered 
for  ever  and  passed  on  from  generation  to  generation. 
But  it  would  really  form  only  one  brief  chapter  in  the 
long,  long  history  of  the  village  life  with  its  thousand 
chapters. 

The  truth  is,  if  we  live  in  fairly  natural  healthy 
condition,  we  are  just  as  happy  as  the  lower  animals. 
Some  philosopher  has  said  that  the  chief  pleasure  in 
a  man's  life,  as  in  that  of  a  cow,  consists  in  the  pro- 
cesses of  mastication,  deglutition,  and  digestion,  and  I 
am  very  much  inclined  to  agree  with  him.  The 
thought  of  death  troubles  us  very  Httle — we  do  not 
beheve  in  it.  A  familiar  instance  is  that  of  the  con- 
sumptive, whose  doctor  and  friends  have  given  him  up 
and  wait  but  to  see  the  end,  while  he,  deluded  man, 
still  sees  life,  an  illimitable,  green,  sunlit  prospect, 
stretching  away  to  an  infinite   distance  before  him. 

258 


The  Village  and  "The  Stones" 

Death  is  a  reality  only  when  It  Is  very  near,  so  close 
on  us  that  we  can  actually  hear  its  swift  stoaty  feet 
rustling  over  the  dead  leaves,  and  for  a  brief  bitter 
space  we  actually  know  that  his  sharp  teeth  will  pres^ 
ently  be  in  our  throat. 

Out  in  the  blessed  sunshine  I  listen  to  a  blackcap 
warbling  very  beautifully  in  a  thorn  bush  near  the 
cottage;  then  to  the  great  shout  of  excited  joy  of 
the  children  just  released  from  school,  as  they  rush 
pell-mell  forth  and  scatter  about  the  village,  and  it 
strikes  me  that  the  bird  in  the  thorn  is  not  more 
blithe-hearted  than  they.  An  old  rook — I  fancy  he 
is  old,  a  many-wintered  crow — is  loudly  caw-cawing 
from  the  elm  tree  top;  he  has  been  abroad  all  day 
in  the  fields  and  has  seen  his  young  able  to  feed  them- 
selves; and  his  own  crop  full,  and  now  he  is  calling 
to  the  others  to  come  and  sit  there  to  enjoy  the  sun- 
shine with  him.  I  doubt  if  he  is  happier  than  the 
human  inhabitants  of  the  village,  the  field  labourers 
and  shepherds  who  have  been  out  toiling  since  the  early 
hours,  and  are  now  busy  in  their  own  gardens  and 
allotments  or  placidly  smoking  their  pipes  at  their 
cottage  doors. 

But  I  could  not  stay  longer  in  that  village  of  old 
unhappy  memories  and  of  quiet,  happy,  uninteresting 
lives  that  leave  no  memory,  so  after  waiting  two  more 
days  I  forced  myself  to  say  good-bye  to  my  poor 
old  landlady.  Or  rather  to  say  "Good  night,"  as  I 
had  to  start  at  one  o'clock  in  the  morning  so  as  to 
have  a  couple  of  hours  before  sunrise  at  "The  Stones" 


Afoot  in  England 

on  my  way  to  Salisbury.  Her  latest  effort  to  detain 
me  a  day  longer  had  been  made  and  there  was  no 
more  to  say. 

"Do  you  know,'*  she  said  in  a  low  mysterious  voice, 
"that  it  is  not  safe  to  be  alone  at  midnight  on  this 
long  lonely  road — the  loneliest  place  in  all  Salisbury 
Plain?"  "The  safest,"  I  said.  "Safe  as  the  Tower 
of  London — the  protectors  of  all  England  are  there." 
"Ah,  there's  where  the  danger  is!"  she  returned. 
"If  you  -meet  some  desperate  man,  a  deserter  with  his 
rifle  in  his  hand  perhaps,  do  you  think  he  would  hesi- 
tate about  knocking  you  over  to  save  himself  and  at 
the  same  time  get  a  little  money  to  help  him  on  his 
way?" 

I  smiled  at  her  simulated  anxiety  for  my  safety,  and 
set  forth  when  it  was  very  dark  but  under  a  fine  starry 
sky.  The  silence,  too,  was  very  profound:  there  was 
no  goad-bye  from  crowing  cock  or  hooting  owl  on 
this  occasion,  nor  did  any  cyclist  pass  me  on  the  road 
with  a  flash  of  light  from  his  lamp  and  a  tinkle  from 
his  bell.  The  long  straight  road  on  the  high  down  was 
a  dim  grey  band  visible  but  a  few  yards  before  me,  ly- 
ing across  the  Intense  blackness  of  the  earth.  By  day 
I  prefer  as  a  rule  walking  on  the  turf,  but  this  road  had 
a  rare  and  peculiar  charm  at  this  time.  It  was  now 
the  season  when  the  bird's-foot-trefoil,  one  of  the  com- 
monest plants  of  the  downland  country,  was  in  its  full- 
est bloom,  so  that  in  many  places  the  green  or  grey- 
green  turf  as  far  as  one  could  see  on  every  side  was 
sprinkled  and  splashed  with  orange-yellow.  Now  this 
creeping,  spreading  plant,  like  most  plants  that  grow 

260 


The  Village  and  ''The  Stones'* 

on  the  close-cropped  sheep-walks,  whose  safety  lies 
in  their  power  to  root  themselves  and  live  very  close 
to  the  surface,  yet  must  ever  strive  to  lift  its  flowers 
into  the  unobstructed  light  and  air  and  to  overtop  or 
get  away  from  its  crowding  neighbours.  On  one  side 
of  the  road,  where  the  turf  had  been  cut  by  the  spade 
in  a  sharp  line,  the  plant  had  found  a  rare  opportunity 
to  get  space  and  light  and  had  thrust  out  such  a  mul- 
titude of  bowering  sprays,  projecting  them  beyond  the 
turf,  as  to  form  a  close  band  or  rope  of  orange-yellow, 
which  divided  the  white  road  from  the  green  turf,  and 
at  one  spot  extended  unbroken  for  upwards  of  a  mile. 
The  effect  was  so  singular  and  pretty  that  I  had 
haunted  this  road  for  days  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
that  flower  border  made  by  nature.  Now  all  colour 
was  extinguished:  beneath  and  around  me  there  was  a 
dimness  which  at  a  few  yards'  distance  deepened  to 
blackness,  and  above  me  the  pale  dim  blue  sky 
sprinkled  with  stars;  but  as  I  walked  I  had  the 
image  of  that  brilliant  band  of  yellow  colour  in  my 
mind. 

By  and  by  the  late  moon  rose,  and  a  little  later  the 
east  began  to  grow  lighter  and  the  dark  down  to  change 
imperceptibly  to  dim  hoary  green.  Then  the  exquisite 
colours  of  the  dawn  once  more,  and  the  larks  rising 
in  the  dim  distance — a  beautiful  unearthly  sound — 
and  so  in  the  end  I  came  to  "The  Stones,"  rejoicing, 
in  spite  of  a  cloud  which  now  appeared  on  the  eastern 
horizon  to  prevent  the  coming  sun  from  being  seen, 
that  I  had  the  place  to  myself.  The  rejoicing  came 
a  little  too  soon;  a  very  few  minutes  later  other  visitors 

261 


Afoot  in  England 

on  foot  and  on  bicycles  began  to  come  in,  and  we  all 
looked  at  each  other  a  little  blankly.  Then  a  motor- 
car arrived,  and  two  gentlemen  stepped  out  and  stared 
at  us,  and  one  suddenly  burst  out  laughing. 

"I  see  nothing  to  laugh  at!"  said  his  companion  a 
little  severely. 

The  other  In  a  low  voice  made  some  apology  or 
explanation  which  I  failed  to  catch.  It  was,  of  course, 
not  right;  It  was  indecent  to  laugh  on  such  an  occa- 
sion, for  we  were  not  of  the  ebullient  sort  who  go  to 
"The  Stones"  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  ''for 
a  lark";  but  it  was  very  natural  in  the  circumstances, 
and  mentally  I  laughed  myself  at  the  absurdity  of  the 
situation.  However,  the  laugher  had  been  rebuked 
for  his  levity,  and  this  incident  over,  there  was  nothing 
further  to  disturb  me  or  any  one  in  our  solemn  little 
gathering. 

It  was  a  very  sweet  experience,  and  I  cannot  say 
that  my  early  morning  outing  would  have  been  equally 
good  at  any  other  lonely  spot  on  Salisbury  Plain  or 
anywhere  else  with  a  wide  starry  sky  above  me,  the 
flush  of  dawn  In  the  east,  and  the  larks  rising  heaven- 
ward out  of  the  dim  misty  earth.  Those  rudely  fash- 
ioned immemorial  stones  standing  dark  and  large 
against  the  pale  clear  moonlit  sky  imparted  something 
to  the  feeling.  I  sat  among  them  alone  and  had 
them  all  to  myself,  as  the  others,  fearing  to  tear  their 
clothes  on  the  barbed  wire,  had  not  ventured  to  follow 
me  when  I  got  through  the  fence.  Outside  the  en- 
closure they  were  some  distance  from  me,  and  as  they 

262 


The  Village  and  ''The  Stones" 

talked  In  subdued  tones,  their  voices  reached  me  as  a 
low  murmur — a  sound  not  out  of  harmony  with  the 
silent  solitary  spirit  of  the  place ;  and  there  was  now  no 
other  sound  except  that  of  a  few  larks  singing  fitfully 
a  long  way  off. 

Just  what  the  element  was  in  that  morning's  feel- 
ing which  Stonehenge  contributed  I  cannot  say.  It 
was  too  vague  and  uncertain,  too  closely  interwoven 
with  the  more  common  feeling  for  nature.  No  doubt 
it  was  partly  due  to  many  untraceable  associations, 
and  partly  to  a  thought,  scarcely  definite  enough  to 
be  called  a  thought,  of  man's  life  in  this  land  from 
the  time  this  hoary  temple  was  raised  down  to  the 
beginning  of  history.  A  vast  span,  a  period  of  ten 
or  more,  probably  of  twenty  centuries,  during  which 
great  things  occurred  and  great  tragedies  were  en- 
acted, which  seem  all  the  darker  and  more  tremendous 
to  the  mind  because  unwritten  and  unknown.  But 
with  the  mighty  dead  of  these  blank  ages  I  could  not 
commune.  Doubtless  they  loved  and  hated  and  rose 
and  fell,  and  there  were  broken  hearts  and  broken 
lives;  but  as  beings  of  flesh  and  blood  we  cannot  vis- 
ualize them,  and  are  in  doubt  even  as  to  their  race. 
And  of  their  minds,  or  their  philosophy  of  life,  we 
know  absolutely  nothing.  We  are  able,  as  Clifford 
has  said  in  his  Cosmic  Emotion,  to  shake  hands  with 
the  ancient  Greeks  across  the  great  desert  of  centuries 
which  divides  our  day  from  theirs;  but  there  is  no 
shaking  hands  with  these  ancients  of  Britain — or  Al- 
bion, seeing  that  we  are  on  the  chalk.     To  our  souls 

263 


Afoot  in  England 

they  are  as  strange  as  the  builders  of  Tiuhuanaco,  or 
Mitla  and  Itzana,  and  the  cyclopean  ruins  of  Zim- 
babwe and  the  Carolines. 

It  is  thought  by  some  of  our  modern  investigators 
of  psychic  phenomena  that  apparitions  result  from 
the  coming  out  of  impressions  left  in  the  surround- 
ing matter,  or  perhaps  in  the  ether  pervading  it, 
especially  in  moments  of  supreme  agitation  or  agony. 
The  apparition  is  but  a  restored  picture,  and  pictures 
of  this  sort  are  about  us  in  millions;  but  for  our  peace 
they  are  rarely  visible,  as  the  ability  to  see  them  is  the 
faculty  of  but  a  few  persons  in  certain  moods  and  cer- 
tain circumstances.  Here,  then,  if  anywhere  in  Eng- 
land, we,  or  the  persons  who  are  endowed  with  this 
unpleasant  gift,  might  look  for  visions  of  the  time 
when  Stonehenge  was  the  spiritual  capital,  the  Mecca 
of  the  faithful  (when  all  were  that) ,  the  meeting- 
place  of  all  the  intellect,  the  hoary  experience,  the 
power  and  majesty  of  the  land. 

But  no  visions  have  been  recorded.  It  is  true  that 
certain  stories  of  alleged  visions  have  been  circulated 
during  the  last  few  years.  One,  very  pretty  and 
touching,  is  of  a  child  from  the  London  slums  who  saw 
things  invisible  to  others.  This  was  one  of  the  chil- 
dren of  the  very  poor,  who  are  taken  in  summer  and 
planted  all  about  England  in  cottages  to  have  a  week 
or  a  fortnight  of  country  air  and  sunshine.  Taken 
to  Stonehenge,  she  had  a  vision  of  a  great  gathering 
of  people,  and  so  real  did  they  seem  that  she  believed 
in  the  reality  of  it  all,  and  so  beautiful  did  they  appear 
to  her  that  she  was  reluctant  to  leave,  and  begged  to 

264 


The  Village  and  ''The  Stones" 

be  taken  back  to  see  it  all  again.  Unfortunately  it  is 
not  true.  A  full  and  careful  inquiry  has  been  made 
into  the  story,  of  which  there  are  several  versions,  and 
its  origin  traced  to  a  little  story-telling  Wiltshire  boy 
who  had  read  or  heard  of  the  white-robed  priests  of 
the  ancient  days  at  "The  Stones,"  and  who  just  to 
astonish  other  little  boys  naughtily  pretended  that  he 
had  seen  it  all  himself  I 


265 


Chapter  Twenty-Three:  Following 
a  River 

The  stream  Invites  us  to  follow :  the  impulse  is  so  com- 
mon that  it  might  be  set  down  as  an  instinct;  and  cer- 
tainly there  is  no  more  fascinating  pastime  than  to  keep 
company  with  a  river  from  its  source  to  the  sea.  Un- 
fortunately this  is  not  easy  in  a  country  where  running 
waters  have  been  enclosed,  which  should  be  as  free  as 
the  rain  and  sunshine  to  all,  and  were  once  free,  when 
■England  was  England  still,  before  landowners  an- 
nexed them,  even  as  they  annexed  or  stole  the  com- 
mons and  shut  up  the  footpaths  and  made  it  an 
offence  for  a  man  to  go  aside  from  the  road  to  feel 
God's  grass  under  his  feet.  Well,  they  have  also  got 
the  road  now,  and  cover  and  blind  and  choke  us  with 
its  dust  and  insolently  hoot-hoot  at  us.  Out  of  the 
way,  miserable  crawlers,  if  you  don't  want  to  be 
smashed ! 

Sometimes  the  way  is  cut  off  by  huge  thorny  hedges 
and  fences  of  barbed  wire — man's  devilish  improve- 
ment on  the  bramble — brought  down  to  the  water's 
edge.  The  river-follower  must  force  his  way  through 
these  obstacles,  in  most  cases  greatly  to  the  detriment 
of  his  clothes  and  temper;  or,  should  they  prove  im- 
passable, he  must  undress  and  go  into  the  water. 
Worst  of  all  is  the  thought  that  he  is  a  trespasser. 
The  pheasants  crow  loudly  lest  be  should  forget  It. 
Occasionally,  too,  In  these  private  places  he  encounters 
men  in  velveteens  with  guns  under  their  arms,  and 

266 


Following  a  River 

other  men  In  tweeds  and  knickerbockers,  with  or  with- 
out guns,  and  they  all  stare  at  him  with  amazement  In 
their  eyes,  like  disturbed  cattle  In  a  pasture ;  and  some- 
times they  challenge  him.  But  I  must  say  that,  al- 
though I  have  been  sharply  spoken  to  on  several  oc- 
casions, always,  after  a  few  words,  I  have  been  per- 
mitted to  keep  on  my  way.  And  on  that  way  I  in- 
tend to  keep  until  I  have  no  more  strength  to  climb 
over  fences  and  force  my  way  through  hedges,  but 
like  a  blind  and  worn-out  old  badger  must  take  to  my 
earth  and  die. 

I  found  the  Exe  easy  to  follow  at  first.  Further 
on  exceedingly  difficult  In  places;  but  I  was  determined 
to  keep  near  it,  to  have  It  behind  me  and  before  me  and 
at  my  side,  following,  leading,  a  beautiful  silvery  ser- 
pent that  was  my  friend  and  companion.  For  I  was 
following  not  the  Exe  only,  but  a  dream  as  well,  and 
a  memory.  Before  I  knew  It  the  Exe  was  a  beloved 
stream.  Many  rivers  had  I  seen  In  my  wanderings, 
but  never  one  to  compare  with  this  visionary  river, 
which  yet  existed,  and  would  be  found  and  followed  at 
last.  My  forefathers  had  dwelt  for  generations  be- 
side It,  listening  all  their  lives  long  to  its  music,  and 
when  they  left  It  they  still  loved  it  in  exile,  and  died 
at  last  with  its  music  in  their  ears.  Nor  did  the  con- 
nection end  there;  their  children  and  children's  chil- 
dren doubtless  had  some  Inherited  memory  of  It;  or 
how  came  I  to  have  this  feeling,  which  made  it  sacred, 
and  drew  me  to  it?  We  inherit  not  from  our  ances- 
tors only,  but,  through  them,  something,  too,  from 
the  earth  and  place  that  knew  them. 

267 


Afoot  in  England 

I  sought  for  and  found  it  where  it  takes  its  rise  on 
open  Exmoor;  a  simple  moorland  stream,  not  wild 
and  foaming  and  leaping  over  rocks,  but  flowing  gently 
between  low  peaty  banks,  where  the  little  lambs  leap 
over  it  from  side  to  side  in  play.  Following  the  stream 
down,  I  come  at  length  to  Exford.  Here  the  aspect 
of  the  country  begins  to  change;  it  is  not  all  brown 
desolate  heath;  there  are  green  flowery  meadows  by 
the  river,  and  some  wood.  A  Httle  further  down  and 
the  Exe  will  be  a  woodland  stream;  but  of  all  the  rest 
of  my  long  walk  I  shall  only  say  that  to  see  the  real 
beauty  of  this  stream  one  must  go  to  Somerset.  From 
Exford  to  Dulverton  it  runs,  singing  aloud,  foam- 
flecked,  between  high  hills  clothed  to  their  summits 
in  oak  woods :  after  its  union  with  the  Barle  it  enters 
Devonshire  as  a  majestic  stream,  and  flows  calmly 
through  a  rich  green  country;  its  wild  romantic  charm 
has  been  left  behind. 

The  uni'nformed  traveller,  whose  principle  it  is 
never  to  look  at  a  guide-book,  is  surprised  to  find  that 
the  small  village  of  Exford  contains  no  fewer  than 
half  a  dozen  inns.  He  asks  how  they  are  kept  going; 
and  the  natives,  astonished  at  his  ignorance,  proceed 
to  enlighten  him.  Exford  is  the  headquarters  of  the 
stag-hunt:  thither  the  hunters  flock  in  August,  and 
spend  so  much  money  during  thir  brief  season  that 
the  innkeepers  grow  rich  and  fat,  and  for  the  rest 
of  the  year  can  afford  to  doze  peacefully  behind  their 
bars.  Here  are  the  kennels,  and  when  I  visited  them 
they  contained  forty  or  fifty  couples  of  stag-hounds. 
These  are  gigantic  fox-hounds,  selected  for  their  great 

268 


Following  a  River 

size  from  packs  all  over  the  country.  When  out  ex- 
ercising these  big  vari-coloured  dogs  make  a  fine  show. 
It  is  curious  to  find  that,  although  these  individual 
variations  are  continually  appearing — very  large  dogs 
born  of  dogs  of  medium  size — others  cannot  be  bred 
from  them ;  the  variety  cannot  be  fixed. 

The  village  is  not  picturesque.  Its  one  perennial 
charm  is  the  swift  river  that  flows  through  it,  making 
music  on  its  wide  sandy  and  pebbly  floor.  Hither 
and  thither  flit  the  wagtails,  finding  little  half-uncov- 
ered stones  in  the  current  to  perch  upon.  Both  the 
pied  and  grey  species  are  there;  and,  seeing  them  to- 
gether, one  naturally  wishes  to  resettle  for  himself 
the  old  question  as  to  which  is  the  prettiest  and  most 
graceful.  Now  this  one  looks  best  and  now  that; 
but  the  delicately  coloured  grey  and  yellow  bird  has 
the  longest  tail  and  can  use  it  more  prettily.  Her 
tail  is  as  much  to  her,  both  as  ornament  and  to  express 
emotions,  as  a  fan  to  any  flirtatious  Spanish  senora. 
One  always  thinks  of  these  dainty  feathered  creatures 
as  females.  It  would  seem  quite  natural  to  call  the 
wagtail  "lady-bird,"  if  that  name  had  not  been  regis- 
tered by  a  diminutive  podgy  tortoise-shaped  black  and 
red  beetle. 

So  shallow  is  the  wide  stream  in  the  village  that  a 
little  girl  of  about  seven  came  down  from  a  cottage, 
and  to  cool  her  feet  waded  out  into  the  middle,  and 
there  she  stood  for  some  minutes  on  a  low  flat  stone, 
looking  down  on  her  own  wavering  image  broken  by 
a  hundred  hurrying  wavelets  and  ripples.  This  small 
maidie,  holding  up  her  short,  shabby  frock  with  her 

269 


Afoot  in  England 

wee  hands,  her  bright  brown  hair  falling  over  her 
face  as  she  bent  her  head  down  and  laughed  to  see 
her  bare  little  legs  and  their  flickering  reflection  be- 
neath, made  a  pretty  picture.  Like  the  wagtails,  she 
looked  in  harmony  with  her  surroundings. 

So  many  are  the  villages,  towns,  and  places  of  in- 
terest seen,  so  many  the  adventures  met  with  in  this 
walk,  starting  with  the  baby  streamlet  beyond  Simons- 
bath,  and  following  it  down  to  Exeter  and  Exmouth, 
that  it  would  take  half  a  volume  to  describe  them, 
however  briefly.  Yet  at  the  end  I  found  that  Exford 
had  left  the  most  vivid  and  lasting  impression,  and 
was  remembered  with  most  pleasure.  It  was  more 
to  me  than  Winsford,  that  fragrant,  cool,  grey  and 
green  village,  the  home  of  immemorial  peace,  second 
to  no  EngHsh  village  in  beauty;  with  its  hoary  church 
tower,  its  great  trees,  its  old  stone,  thatched  cottages 
draped  in  ivy  and  vine,  its  soothing  sound  of  running 
waters.  Exeter  itself  did  not  impress  me  so  strongly, 
in  spite  of  its  cathedral.  The  village  of  Exford 
printed  itself  thus  sharply  on  my  mind  because  I  had 
there  been  filled  with  wonder  and  delight  at  the  sight 
of  a  face  exceeding  in  loveliness  all  the  faces  seen  in 
that  West  Country — a  rarest  human  gem,  which  had 
the  power  of  imparting  to  its  setting  something  of  its 
own  wonderful  lustre.  The  type  was  a  common  Som- 
erset one,  but  with  marked  differences  in  some  re- 
spects, else  it  could  not  have  been  so  perfect. 

The  type  I  speak  of  is  a  very  distinct  one :  in  a  crowd 
in  a  London  street  you  caix  easily  spot  a  Somerset  man 
who  has  this  mark  on  his  countenance,  but  it  shows 

270 


Following  a  River 
more  clearly  In  the  woman.  There  are  more  types 
than  one,  but  the  variety  is  less  than  in  other  places; 
the  women  are  more  like  each  other,  and  differ  more 
from  those  that  are  outside  their  borders  than  is  the 
case  in  other  English  counties.  A  woman  of  this  pre- 
valent type,  to  be  met  with  anywhere  from  Bath  and 
Bedminster  to  the  wilds  of  Exmoor,  is  of  a  good 
height,  and  has  a  pleasant,  often  a  pretty  face;  regular 
features,  the  nose  straight,  rather  long,  with  thin  nos- 
trils; eyes  grey-blue;  hair  brown,  neither  dark  nor 
light,  in  many  cases  with  a  sandy  or  sunburnt  tint. 
Black,  golden,  reds,  chestnuts  are  rarely  seen.  There 
is  always  colour  in  the  skin,  but  not  deep;  as  a  rule 
it  is  a  light  tender  brown  with  a  rosy  or  reddish  tinge. 
Altogether  it  is  a  winning  face,  with  smiling  eyes ;  there 
is  more  in  it  of  that  something  we  can  call  "refinement" 
than  is  seen  in  women  of  the  same  class  in  other 
counties.  The  expression  is  somewhat  infantile;  a 
young  woman,  even  a  middle-aged  woman,  will  fre- 
quently remind  you  of  a  little  girl  of  seven  or  eight 
summers.  The  innocent  eyes  and  mobile  mouth  are 
singularly  childlike.  This  peculiarity  is  the  more 
striking  when  we  consider  the  figure.  This  is  not 
fully  developed  according  to  the  accepted  standards: 
the  hips  are  too  small,  the  chest  too  narrow  and  flat, 
the  arms  too  thin.  True  or  false,  the  idea  is  formed 
of  a  woman  of  a  childlike,  affectionate  nature,  but  lack- 
ing in  passion,  one  to  be  chosen  for  a  sister  rather  than 
a  wife.  Something  in  us — instinct  or  tradition — ^wIU 
have  It  that  the  well-developed  woman  Is  richest  In  the 
purely  womanly  qualities — the  wifely  and  maternal 

271 


Afoot  in  England 

feelings.     The  luxuriant  types  that  abound  most  In 
Devonshire  are  not  common  here. 

It  will  be  understood  that  the  women  described  are 
those  that  live  in  cottages.  Here,  as  elsewhere,  as 
you  go  higher  in  the  social  scale — further  from  the 
soil  as  it  were — the  type  becomes  less  and  less  distinct. 
Those  of  the  "higher  class,"  or  "better  class,"  are 
few,  and  always  in  a  sense  foreigners. 


272 


Chapter  Twenty-Four:  Troston 

I  doubt  if  the  name  of  this  small  Suffolk  village,  re- 
mote from  towns  and  railroads,  will  have  any  literary 
associations  for  the  reader,  unless  he  be  a  person  of 
exceptionally  good  memory,  who  has  taken  a  special 
interest  in  the  minor  poets  of  the  last  century;  or  that 
it  would  help  him  if  I  add  the  names  of  Honington 
and  Saplston,  two  other  small  villages  a  couple  of  miles 
from  Troston,  with  the  slow  sedgy  Little  Ouse,  or  a 
branch  of  it,  flowing  between  them.  Yet  Honington 
was  the  birthplace  of  Robert  Bloomfield,  known  as 
^^the  Suffolk  poet"  in  the  early  part  of  the  last  century 
(although  Crabbe  was  living  then  and  was  great,  as 
he  is  becoming  again  after  many  years)  ;  while  at 
Saplston,  the  rustic  village  on  the  other  side  of  the 
old  stone  bridge,  he  acquired  that  love  of  nature  and 
intimate  knowledge  of  farm  life  and  work  which  came 
out  later  in  his  Farmer's  Boy.  Finally,  Troston,  the 
little  village  in  which  I  write,  was  the  home  of  Capel 
Lofft,  a  person  of  importance  in  his  day,  who  discov- 
ered Bloomfield,  found  a  publisher  for  his  poems,  and 
boomed  it  with  amazing  success. 

I  dare  say  it  will  only  provoke  a  smile  of  amuse- 
ment in  readers  of  literary  taste  when  I  confess  that 

273 


Afoot  in  England 

Bloomfield's  memory  is  dear  to  me ;  that  only  because 
of  this  feeling  for  the  forgotten  rustic  who  wrote 
rhymes  I  am  now  here,  strolling  about  in  the  shade  of 
the  venerable  trees  in  Troston  Park — the  selfsame 
trees  which  the  somewhat  fantastic  Capel  knew 
in  his  day  as  ^'Homer,''  ''Sophocles/'  "Virgil," 
"Milton,"  and  by  other  names,  calling  each  old 
oak,  elm,  ash,  and  chestnut  after  one  of  the  im- 
mortals. 

I  can  even  imagine  that  the  literary  man,  if  he 
chanced  to  be  a  personal  friend,  would  try  to  save  me 
from  myself  by  begging  me  not  to  put  anything  of 
this  sort  into  print.  He  would  warn  me  that  it  mat- 
ters nothing  that  Bloomfield's  verse  was  exceedingly 
popular  for  a  time,  that  twenty-five  or  thirty  editions 
of  his  Farmer^ s  Boy  were  issued  within  three  years  of 
its  publication  in  1800,  that  it  continued  to  be  read  for 
half  a  century  afterwards.  There  are  other  better 
tests.  Is  it  alive  to-day?  What  do  judges  of  liter- 
ature say  of  it  now?  Nothing!  They  smile  and 
that's  all.  The  absurdity  of  his  popularity  was  felt  in 
his  own  day.  Byron  laughed  at  it;  Crabbe  growled 
and  Charles  Lamb  said  he  had  looked  at  the  Farmer's 
Boy  and  it  made  him  sick.  Well,  nobody  wants  to 
look  at  it  now. 

Much  more  might  be  said  very  easily  on  this  side; 
nevertheless,  I  think  I  shall  go  on  with  my  plea  for 
the  small  verse-maker  who  has  long  fallen  out;  and 
though  I  may  be  unable  to  make  a  case  out,  the  kindly 
critic  may  find  some  circumstance  to  extenuate  my  folly 
— to  say,  in  the  end,  that  this  appears  to  be  one  of 

274 


Troston 
the    little    foolishnesses    which    might    be    forgiven. 

I  must  confess  at  starting  that  the  regard  I  have  for 
one  of  his  poems,  the  Farmer* s  Boy,  is  not  wholly  a 
matter  of  literary  taste  or  the  critical  faculty;  it  is 
also,  to  some  extent,  a  matter  of  association,  and  as 
the  story  of  how  this  comes  about  is  rather  curious,  I 
will  venture  to  give  it. 

In  the  distant  days  of  my  boyhood  and  early  youth 
my  chief  delight  was  in  nature,  and  when  I  opened 
a  book  it  was  to  find  something  about  nature  in  it, 
especially  some  expression  of  the  feeling  produced  in 
us  by  nature,  which  was,  in  my  case,  inseparable  from 
seeing  and  hearing,  and  was,  to  me,  the  most  im- 
portant thing  in  life.  For  who  could  look  on  earth, 
water,  sky,  on  living  or  growing  or  inanimate  things, 
without  experiencing  that  mysterious  uplifting  glad- 
ness in  him  I  In  due  time  I  discovered  that  the  thing 
I  sought  for  in  printed  books  was  to  be  found  chiefly 
in  poetry,  that  half  a  dozen  lines  charged  with  poetic 
feeling  about  nature  often  gave  me  more  satisfaction 
than  a  whole  volume  of  prose  on  such  subjects.  Un- 
fortunately this  kind  of  literature  was  not  obtainable 
in  my  early  home  on  the  then  semi-wild  pampas. 
There  were  a  couple  of  hundred  volumes  on  the  shelves 
— theology,  history,  biography,  philosophy,  science, 
travels,  essays,  and  some  old  forgotten  fiction;  but 
no  verse  was  there,  except  Shenstone,  in  a  small, 
shabby,  coverless  volume.  This  I  read  and  re-read 
until  I  grew  sick  of  bright  Roxana  tripping  o'er  the 
green,  or  of  gentle  Delia  when  a  tear  bedews  her  eye 
to  think  yon  playful  kid  must  die.     To  my  unculti- 

275 


Afoot  in  England 

vated  mind — for  I  had  never  been  at  school,  and  lived 
in  the  open  air  with  the  birds  and  beasts — this  seemed 
intolerably  artificial;  for  I  was  like  a  hungry  person 
who  has  nothing  but  kickshaws  put  before  him,  and 
eats  because  he  is  hungry  until  he  loathes  a  food  which 
in  its  taste  confounds  the  appetite.  Never  since  those 
distant  days  have  I  looked  at  a  Shenstone  or  even  seen 
his  name  in  print  or  heard  it  spoken,  without  a  sHght 
return  of  that  old  sensation  of  nausea.  If  Shenstone 
alone  had  come  to  me,  the  desire  for  poetry  would 
doubtless  have  been  outlived  early  in  life;  but  there 
were  many  passages,  some  very  long,  from  the  poets 
in  various  books  on  the  shelves,  and  these  kept  my 
appetite  alive.  There  was  Brown's  Philosophy,  for 
example ;  and  Brown  loved  to  illustrate  his  point  with 
endless  poetic  quotations,  the  only  drawback  in  my 
case  being  that  they  were  almost  exclusively  drawn 
from  Akenside,  who  was  not  "rural."  But  there 
were  other  books  in  which  other  poets  were  quoted, 
and  of  all  these  the  passages  which  invariably  pleased 
me  most  were  the  descriptions  of  rural  sights  and 
sounds. 

One  day,  during  a  visit  to  the  city  of  Buenos  Ayres, 
I  discovered  in  a  mean  street,  in  the  southern  part  of 
the  town,  a  second-hand  bookshop,  kept  by  an  old 
snuffy  spectacled  German  in  a  long  shabby  black  coat. 
I  remember  him  well  because  he  was  a  very  important 
person  to  me.  It  was  the  first  shop  of  the  kind  I  had 
seen — I  doubt  if  there  was  another  in  the  town ;  and  to 
be  allowed  to  rummage  by  the  hour  among  this  mass 
of  old  books  on  the  dusty  shelves  and  heaped  on  the 

276 


Troston 

brick  floor  was  a  novel  and  delightful  experience.  The 
books  were  mostly  in  Spanish,  French,  and  German, 
but  there  were  some  in  English,  and  among  them  I 
came  upon  Thomson's  Seasons,  I  remember  the 
thrill  of  joy  I  experienced  when  I  snatched  up  the  small 
thin  octavo  in  its  smooth  calf  binding.  It  was  the  first 
book  in  English  I  ever  bought,  and  to  this  day  when  I 
see  a  copy  of  the  Seasons  on  a  bookstall,  which  is 
often  enough,  I  cannot  keep  my  fingers  off  it  and  find 
it  hard  to  resist  the  temptation  to  throw  a  couple  of 
shillings  away  and  take  it  home.  If  shillings  had  not 
been  wanted  for  bread  and  cheese  I  should  have  had  a 
roomful  of  copies  by  now.  ^ 

Few  books  have  given  me  more  pleasure,  and  as  I 
still  return  to  it  from  time  to  time  I  do  not  suppose 
I  shall  ever  outgrow  the  feeling,  in  spite  of  its  having 
been  borne  in  on  me,  when  I  first  conversed  with  read- 
ers of  poetry  in  England,  that  Thomson  is  no  longer 
read — that  he  is  unreadable. 

After  such  a  find  I  naturally  went  back  many  times 
to  burrow  in  that  delightful  rubbish  heap,  and  was 
at  length  rewarded  by  the  discovery  of  yet  another 
poem  of  rural  England — the  Farmer's  Boy.  I  was 
prepared  to  like  it,  for  although  I  did  not  know  any- 
thing about  the  author's  early  life,  the  few  passages 
I  had  come  across  in  quotations  in  James  Rennie's 
and  other  old  natural  history  compilations  had  given 
me  a  strong  desire  to  read  the  whole  poem.  I  certainly 
did  like  it — this  quiet  description  in  verse  of  a  green 
spot  in  England,  my  spiritual  country  which  so  far  as 
I  knew  I  was  never  destined  to  see;  and  that  I  con- 

277 


Afoot  in  Rn gland 

tinue  to  like  it  is,  as  I  have  said,  the  reason  of  my 
being  in  this  place. 

While  thus  freely  admitting  that  the  peculiar  cir- 
cumstances of  the  case  caused  me  to  value  this  poem, 
and,  in  fact,  made  it  very  much  more  to  me  than 
it  could  be  to  persons  born  in  England  with  all  its 
poetical  literature  to  browse  on,  I  am  at  the  same 
time  convinced  that  this  is  not  the  sole  reason  for  my 
regard. 

I  take  it  that  the  Farmer^ s  Boy  is  poetry,  not  merely 
slightly  poetized  prose  in  the  form  of  verse,  although 
it  is  undoubtedly  poetry  of  a  very  humble  order. 

Mere  descriptions  of  rural  scenes  do  not  demand 
the  higher  qualities  of  the  poet — imagination  and 
passion.  The  lower  kind  of  inspiration  is,  in  fact, 
often  better  suited  to  such  themes  and  shows  nature  by 
the  common  light  of  day,  as  it  were,  instead  of  re- 
vealing it  as  by  a  succession  of  lightning  flashes.  Even 
among  those  who  confine  themselves  to  this  lower 
plane,  Bloomfield  is  not  great:  his  small  flame  is  con- 
stantly sinking  and  flickering  out.  But  at  intervals  it 
burns  up  again  and  redeems  the  work  from  being 
wholly  commonplace  and  trivial.  He  is,  in  fact,  no 
better  than  many  another  small  poet  who  has  been  de- 
voured by  Time  since  his  day,  and  whose  work  no 
person  would  now  attempt  to  bring  back.  It  is 
probable,  too,  that  many  of  these  lesser  singers  whose 
fame  was  brief  would  in  their  day  have  deeply  resented 
being  placed  on  a  level  with  the  Suffolk  peasant-poet. 
In  spite  of  all  this,  and  of  the  impossibility  of  saving 

278 


Troston 

most  of  the  verse  which  Is  only  passably  good  from 
oblivion,  I  still  think  the  Farmer^ s  Boy  worth  preserv- 
ing for  more  reasons  than  one,  but  chiefly  because  it  is 
the  only  work  of  its  kind. 

There  is  no  lack  of  rural  poetry — the  Seasons  to  be- 
gin with  and  much  Thomsonlan  poetry  besides,  treat- 
ing of  nature  in  a  general  way;  then  we  have  innum- 
erable detached  descriptions  of  actual  scenes,  such  as 
we  find  scattered  throughout  Cowper's  Task,  and  num- 
berless other  works.  Besides  all  this  there  are  the 
countless  shorter  poems,  each  conveying  an  Impression 
of  some  particular  scene  or  aspect  of  nature;  the  poet 
of  the  open  air,  like  the  landscape  painter,  is  ever  on 
the  look  out  for  picturesque  "bits"  and  atmospheric 
effects  as  a  subject.  In  Bloomfield  we  get  something 
altogether  different — a  simple,  consistent,  and  fairly 
complete  account  of  the  country  people's  toilsome  life 
in  a  remote  agricultural  district  In  England — a  small 
rustic  village  set  amid  green  and  arable  fields,  woods 
and  common  lands.  We  have  it  from  the  inside  by 
one  who  had  part  in  it,  born  and  bred  to  the  humble 
life  he  described;  and,  finally,  it  is  not  given  as  a  full 
day-to-day  record — ^photographed  as  we  may  say — with 
all  the  minute  unessential  details  and  repetitions,  but 
as  it  appeared  when  looked  back  upon  from  a  distance, 
reliving  It  in  memory,  the  sights  and  sounds  and 
events  which  had  Impressed  the  boy's  mind  standing 
vividly  out.  Of  this  lowly  poem  it  may  be  truly  said 
that  it  is  "emotion  recollected  in  tranquillity,"  to  use 
the  phrase  invented  by  Wordsworth  when  he  attempted 

279 


Afoot  in  England 

a  definition  of  poetry  generally  and  signally  failed,  as 
Coleridge  demonstrated. 

It  will  be  said  that  the  facts  of  Bloomfield's  life — 
that  he  was  a  farmer's  boy  whose  daily  tasks  were  to 
scare  the  crows,  feed  the  pigs,  and  forty  things  besides, 
and  that  later,  when  learning  the  shoemaker's  trade 
in  a  London  garret,  he  put  these  memories  together 
and  made  them  into  a  poem — are  wholly  beside  the 
question  when  we  come  to  judge  the  work  as  literature. 
A  peasant  poet  may  win  a  great  reputation  in  his  own 
day  on  account  of  the  circumstances  of  the  case,  but 
in  the  end  his  work  must  be  tried  by*the  same  standards 
applied  in  other  and  in  all  cases. 

There  is  no  getting  away  from  this,  and  all  that 
remains  is  to  endeavour  to  show  that  the  poem,  al- 
though poor  as  a  whole,  is  not  altogether  bad,  but  con- 
tains many  lines  that  glow  with  beautiful  poetic  feel- 
ing, and  many  descriptive  passages  which  are  ad- 
mirable. Furthermore,  I  will  venture  to  say  that 
despite  the  feebleness  of  a  large  part  of  the  work  (as 
poetry)  it  is  yet  worth  preserving  in  its  entirety  on 
account  of  its  unique  character.  It  may  be  that  I  am 
the  only  person  in  England  able  to  appreciate  it  so 
fully  owing  to  the  way  in  which  it  first  came  to  my 
notice,  and  the  critical  reader  can,  if  he  thinks  proper, 
discount  what  I  am  now  saying  as  mere  personal  feel- 
ing. But  the  case  is  this :  when,  in  a  distant  region  of 
the  world,  I  sought  for  and  eagerly  read  anything  I 
could  find  relating  to  country  scenes  and  life  in  England 
— the  land  of  my  desire — I  was  never  able  to  get 

280 


Troston 

an  extended  and  congruous  view  of  it,  with  a  sense  of 
the  continuity  in  human  and  animal  life  in  its  relation 
to  nature.  It  was  all  broken  up  into  pieces  or  "bits" ; 
it  was  in  detached  scenes,  vividly  reproduced  to  the 
inner  eye  in  many  cases,  but  unrelated  and  unhar- 
monized,  like  framed  pictures  of  rural  subjects  hang- 
ing on  the  walls  of  a  room.  Even  the  Seasons  failed 
to  supply  this  want,  since  Thomson  in  his  great  work 
is  of  no  place  and  abides  nowhere,  but  ranges  on  eagle's 
wings  over  the  entire  land,  and,  for  the  matter  of  that, 
over  the  whole  globe.  But  I  did  get  it  in  the  Farmer* s 
Boy.  I  visualized  the  whole  scene,  the  entire  har- 
monious life ;  I  was  with  him  from  morn  till  eve  always 
in  that  same  green  country  with  the  same  sky,  cloudy 
or  serene,  above  me ;  in  the  rustic  village,  at  the  small 
church  with  a  thatched  roof  where  the  daws  nested 
in  the  belfry,  and  the  children  played  and  shouted 
among  the  gravestones  in  the  churchyard;  in  woods 
and  green  and  ploughed  fields  and  the  deep  lanes — 
with  him  and  his  fellow-toilers,  and  the  animals, 
domestic  and  wild,  regarding  their  life  and  actions 
from  day  to  day  through  all  the  vicissitudes  of  the 
year. 

The  poem,  then,  appears  to  fill  a  place  in  our  poetic 
literature,  or  to  fill  a  gap ;  at  all  events  from  the  point 
of  view  of  those  who,  barn  and  living  in  distant  parts 
of  the  earth,  still  dream  of  the  Old  Home.  This  per- 
haps accounts  for  the  fact,  which  I  heard  at  Honington, 
that  most  of  the  pilgrims  to  Bloomfield's  birthplace 
are  Americans. 

281 


Afoot  in  England 

Bloomfield  followed  his  great  example  In  divid- 
ing his  poem  into  the  four  seasons,  and  he  be- 
gins, Thomson-like,  with  an  invitation  to  the 
Muse : — 

O  come,  blest  spirit,  whatsoe'er  thou  art, 

Thou  kindling  warmth  that  hov'rest  round  my  heart. 

But  happily  .he  does  not  attempt  to  imitate  the  lofty 
diction  of  the  Seasons  or  Windsor  Forest,  the  ndble 
poem  from  which,  I  imagine,  Thomson  derived  his 
sonorous  style.  He  had  a  humble  mind  and  knew  his 
limitations,  and  though  he  adopted  the  artificial  form 
of  verse  which  prevailed  down  to  his  time  he  was 
still  able  to  be  simple  and  natural. 

''Spring"  does  not  contain  much  of  the  best  of  his 
work,  but  the  opening  is  graceful  and  is  not  without 
a  touch  of  pathos  in  his  apologetic  description  of  him- 
self, as  Giles,  the  farmer's  boy. 

Nature's  sublimer  scenes  ne'er  charmed  my  eyes 

Nor  Science  led  me  .  .  . 

From  meaner  objects  far  my  raptures  flow  .  .  . 

Quick-springing  sorrows,  transient  as  the  dew, 

Delight  from  trifles,   trifles  ever  new. 

'Twas  thus  with  G^les;  meek,  fatherless,  and  poor, 

Labour  his  portion  .  .  . 

His  life  was  cheerful,  constant  servitude  ... 

Strange  to  the  world,  he  wore  a  bashful  look, 

The  fields  his  study,  Nature  was  his  book. 

The  farm  is  described,  the  farmer,  his  kind,  hospit- 
able master;  the  animals,  the  sturdy  team,  the  cows 
and  the  small  flock  of  fore-score  ewes.     Ploughing, 

282 


Troston 

sowing,  and  harrowing  are  described,  and  the  result 
left  to  the  powers  above: — 

Yet  oft  with  anxious  heart  he  looks  around, 

And  marks  the  first  green  blade  that  breaks  the  ground; 

In  fancy  sees  his  trembling  oats  uprun, 

His  tufted  barley  yellow  with  the  sun. 

While  his  master  dreams  of  what  will  be,  Giles  has 
enough  to  do  protecting  the  buried  grain  from  thiev- 
ing rooks  and  crows ;  one  of  the  multifarious  tasks  being 
to  collect  the  birds  that  have  been  shot,  for  although — 

Their  danger  well  the  wary  plunderers  know 
And  place  a  watch  on  some  conspicuous  bough, 
Yet  oft  the  skulking  gunner  by  surprise 
Will  scatter  death  among  them  as  they  rise. 

'Tis  useless.,  he  tells  us,  to  hang  these  slain  robbers 
about  the  fields,  since  in  a  little  while  they  are  no 
more  regarded  than  the  men  of  rags  and  straw  with 
sham  rifles  in  their  hands.  It  was  for  him  to  shift 
the  dead  from  place  to  place,  to  arrange  them  in  dying 
attitudes  with  outstretched  wings.  Finally,  there 
was  the  fox,  the  stealer  of  dead  crows,  to  be  guarded 
against;  and  again  at  eventide  Giles  must  trudge 
round  to  gather  up  his  dead  and  suspend  them  from 
twigs  out  of  reach  of  hungry  night-prowlers.  Called 
up  at  day-break  each  morning,  he  would  take  his  way 
through  deep  lanes  overarched  with  oaks  to  "fields  re- 
mote from  home"  to  redistribute  his  dead  birds,  then 
to  fetch  the  cows,  and  here  we  have  an  example  of  his 
close  naturalist-like  observation  in  his  account  of  the 
leading  cow,  the  one  who  coming  and  going  on  all  oc- 

283 


Afoot  in  England 

caslons  is  allowed  precedence,  who  maintains  her  sta- 
tion, "won  by  many  a  broil,"  with  just  pride.  A  pic- 
ture of  the  cool  dairy  and  its  work  succeeds,  and  a  la- 
ment on  the  effect  of  the  greed  and  luxury  of  the  over- 
populous  capital  which  drains  the  whole  country-side  of 
all  p'roduce,  which  makes  the  Suffolk  dairy-wives  run 
mad  for  cream,  leaving  nothing  but  the  "three-times 
skimmed  sky-blue"  to  make  chees-e  for  local  cojisump- 
tion.  What  a  cheese  it  is,  that  has  the  virtue  of  a 
post,  which  turns  the  stoutest  blade,  and  is  at  last 
flung  in  despair  into  the  hog-trough,  where 

It  rests  in  perfect  spite, 
Too  big  to  swallow  and  too  hard  to  bite! 

We  then  come  to  the  sheep,  "for  Giles  was  shepherd 
too,"  and  here  there  is  more  evidence  of  his  observant 
eye  when  he  describes  the  character  of  the  animals, 
also  in  what  follows  about  the  young  lambs,  which 
forms  the  best  passage  in  this  part.  I  remember  that, 
when  first  reading  it,  being  then  little  past  boyhood 
myself,  how  much  I  was  struck  by  the  vivid  beautiful 
description  of  a  crowd  of  young  lambs  challenging 
each  other  to  a  game,  especially  at  a  spot  where  they 
have  a  mound  or  hillock  for  a  playground  which  takes 
them  with  a  sort  of  goatlike  joyous  madness.  For 
how  often  in  those  days  I  used  to  ride  out  to  where 
the  flock  of  one  to  two  thousand  sheep  were  scattered 
on  the  plain.,  to  sit  on  my  pony  and  watch  the  glad 
romps  ,of  the  little  lambs  with  keenest  delight!  I 
cannot  but  think 'that  Bloomfield's  fidehty  to  nature  In 
such  pictures  a.s  these  does  or  should  count  for  some- 

284 


Troston 

thing    in    considering    his    work.     He    concludes: — 

Adown  the  slope,  then  up  the  hillock  climb, 
Where  every  mole-hill  is  a  bed  of  thyme, 
Then  panting  stop;  yet  scarcely  can  refrain; 
A  bird,  a  leaf,  will  set  them  off  again ; 
Or  if  a  gale  with  strength  unusual  blow, 
Scattering  the  wild-briar  roses  into  snow. 
Their  little  limbs  increasing  efforts  try. 
Like  a  torn  rose  the  fair  assemblage  fly. 

This  Image  of  the  wind-scattered  petals  of  the  wild 
rose  reminds  him  bltteriy  of  the  destined  end  of  these 
joyous  young  lives — his  white-fleeced  little  fellow- 
mortals.  He  sees  the  murdering  bujtcher  coming  in 
his  cart  to  demand  the  firstlings  of  the  flock;  he  can- 
not suppress  a  cry  of  grief  and  indignation — he  can 
only  strive  to  shut  out  the  shocking  image  from  his 
soul! 

"Summer"  opens  with  some  reflections  on  the 
farmer's  life  in  a  prosy  Crabbe-like  manner;  and  here 
it  may  be  noted  that  as  a  rule  Bloomfield  no  sooner 
attempts  to  rise  to  a  general  view  than  he  grows  flat; 
and  in  like  manner  he  usually  fails  when  he  attempts 
wide  prospects  and  large  effects.  He  is  at  his  best 
only  when  describing  scenes  and  incidents  at  the  farm 
in  which  he  himself  is  a  chief  actor,  as  In  this  part 
when,  after  the  sowing  of  the  turnip  seed,  he  is  sent 
out  to  keep  the  small  birds  from  the  ripening  corn : — 

There  thousands  in  a  flock,  for  ever  gay, 
Loud   chirping  sparrows   welcome   on   the   day, 
And  from  the  mazes  of  the  leafy  thorn 
Drop  one  by  one  upon  the  bending  corn. 

285 


Afoot  in  England 

Giles  trudging  along  the  borders  of  the  field  scares 
them  with  his  brushing-pole,  until,  overcome  by  fatigue 
and  heat,  he  takes  a  rest  by  the  brakes  and  lying,  half 
in  sun  and  half  in  shade,  his  attention  is  attracted  to 
the  minute  insect  life  that  swarms  about  him: — 

The  small  dust-coloured  beetle  climbs  with  pain 
O'er   the  smooth  plantain   leaf,  a  spacious  plain! 
Then  higher  still  by  countless  steps  conveyed, 
He  gains  the  summit  of  a  shivering  blade, 
And  flirts  his  filmy  wings  and  looks  around. 
Exulting  in  his  distance  from  the  ground. 

It  is  one  of  his  little  exquisite  pictures.      Presently  his 
vision  is  called  to  the  springing  lark:— 

Just  starting  from  the  corn,  he  cheerly  sings. 
And  trusts  with  conscious  pride  his  downy  wings; 
Still  louder  breathes,  and  in  the  face  of  day 
Mounts  up  and  calls  on  Giles  to  mark  his  way. 
Close  to  his  eye  his  hat  he  instant  bends 
And  forms  a  friendly  telescope  that  lends 
Just  aid  enough  to  dull  the  glaring  light 
And  place  the  wandering  bird  before  his  sight, 
That  oft  beneath  a  light  cloud  sweeps  along; 
Lost  for  a  while  yet  pours  a  varied  song; 
The  eye  still  follows  and  the  cloud  moves  by, 
Again  he  stretches  up  the  clear  blue  sky. 
His  form,  his  motions,  undistinguished  quite, 
Save  when  he  wheels  direct  from  shade  to  light. 

In  the  end  he  falls  asleep,  and  waking  refreshed  picks 
up  his  poles  and  starts  again  brushing  round. 

Harvesting  scenes  succeed,  with  a  picture  of  Mary, 

286 


Troston 

the  village  beauty,  taking  her  share  in  the  work,  and 
how  the  labourers  in  their  unwonted  liveliness  and 
new-found  wit 

Confess  the  presence  of  a  pretty  face. 

She  is  very  rustic  herself  in  her  appearance : — 

Her  hat  awry,   divested  of  her  gown, 

Her  creaking  stays  of  leather,  stout  and  brown: 

Invidious  barrier!  why  art  thou  so  high, 

When  the  slight  covering  of  her  neck  slips  by, 

Then  half  revealing  to  the  eager  sight 

Her  full,  ripe  bosom,  exquisitely  white? 

The  leather  stays  have  no  doubt  gone  the  way  of  many 
other  dreadful  things,  even  in  the  most  rustic  villages 
in  the  land;  not  so  the  barbarous  practice  of  docking 
horses'  tails,  against  which  he  protests  in  this  place 
when  describing  the  summer  plague  of  flies  and  the 
excessive  sufferings  of  the  domestic  animals,  especially 
of  the  poor  horses  deprived  of  their  only  defence 
against  such  an  enemy.  At  his  own  little  farm  there 
was  yet  another  plague  in  the  form  of  an  old  broken- 
winged  gander,  "the  pest  and  tryant  of  the  yard," 
whose  unpleasant  habit  it  was  to  go  for  the  beasts  and 
seize  them  by  the  fetlocks.  The  swine  alone  did  not 
resent  the  attacks  but  welcomed  them,  receiving  the 
assaults  as  caresses,  and  stretching  themselves  out  and 
lying  down  and  closing  their  pigs'  eyes,  they  would 
emit  grunts  of  satisfaction,  while  the  triumphant  bird, 
followed  by  the  whole  gabbling  flock,  would  trample 
on  the  heads  of  their  prostrate  foes. 

287 


Afoot  in  England 

"Autumn'*  opens  bravely: — 

Again  the  year's  decline,  'midst  storms  and  floods, 
The  thund'ring  chase,  the  yellow  fading  woods 
Invite  my  song. 

It  contains  two  of  the  best  things  in  the  poem,  the 
first  in  the  opening  part,  describing  the  swine  in  the 
acorn  season,  a  delightful  picture  which  must  be  given 
in  full:— 

No  more  the  fields  with  scattered  grain  supply 

The  restless  tenants  of  the  sty; 

From  oak  to  oak  they  run  with  eager  haste, 

And  wrangling  share  the  first  delicious  taste 

Of  fallen  acorns;  yet  but  thinly  found 

Till  a  strong  gale  has  shook  them  to  the  ground. 

It  comes;  and  roaring  woods  obedient  wave: 

Their  home  well  pleased  the  joint  adventurers  leave; 

The  trudging  sow  leads  forth  her  numerous  young, 

Playful,   and  white,   and  clean,  the  briars  among, 

Till  briars  and  thorns  increasing  fence  them  round, 

Where  last  year's  mould'ring  leaves  bestrew  the  ground, 

And  o'er  their  heads,  loud  lashed  by  furious  squalls. 

Bright  from  their  cups  the  rattling  treasure  falls; 

Hot  thirsty  food;  whence  doubly  sweet  and  cool 

The  welcome  margin  of  some  rush-grown  pool. 

The  wild  duck's  lonely  haunt,  whose  jealous  eye 

Guards  every  point;  who  sits  prepared  to  fly. 

On  the  calm  bosom  of  her  little  lake. 

Too  closely  screened  for  ruflian  winds  to  shake; 

And  as  the  bold  intruders  press  around, 

At  once  she  starts  and  rises  with  a  bound; 

With  bristles  raised  the  sudden  noise  they  hear, 

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And  ludicrously  wild  and  winged  with  fear, 

The  herd  decamp  with  more  than  swinish  speed, 

And  snorting  dash  through  sedge  and  rush  and  reed; 

Through  tangled  thickets  headlong  on  they  go, 

Then  stop  and  listen  for  their  fancied  foe; 

The  hindmost  still  the  growing  panic  spreads, 

Repeated  fright  the  first  alarm  succeeds, 

Till  Folly's  wages,  wounds  and  thorns,  they  reap; 

Yet  glorying  in  their  fortunate  escape. 

Their  groundless  terrors  by  degrees  soon  cease, 

And  Night's  dark  reign  restores  their  peace. 

For  now  the  gale  subsides,  and  from  each  bough 

The  roosting  pheasant's  short  but  frequent  crow 

Invites  to  rest,  and  huddling  side  by  side 

The  herd  in  closest  ambush  seek  to  hide; 

Seek  some  warm  slope  with  shagged  moss  o'erspread. 

Dried  leaves  their  copious  covering  and  their  bed. 

In  vain  may  Giles,  through  gathering  glooms  that  fall, 

And  solemn  silence,  urge  his  piercing  call; 

Whole  days  and  nights  they  tarry  'midst  their  store, 

Nor  quit  the  woods  till  oaks  can  yield  no  more. 

It  is  a  delightful  passage  to  one  that  knows  a  pig — 
the  animal  we  respect  for  its  intelligence,  holding  it 
in  this  respect  higher,  more  human,  than  the  horse, 
and  at  the  same  time  laugh  at.  on  account  of  certain 
ludicrous  points  about  it,  as  for  example  its  liability 
to  lose  its  head.  Thousands  of  years  of  com- 
fortable domestic  life  have  failed  to  rid  it  of  this  in- 
convenient heritage  from  the  time  when  wild  in  woods 
it  ran.  Yet  In  this  particular  instance  the  terror  of  the 
swine  does  not  seem  wholly  inexcusable.  If  we  know 
a  wild  duck  as  well  as  a  pig,  especially  the  duck  that 

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Afoot  in  England 

takes  to  haunting  a  solitary  woodland  pool,  who,  when 
intruded  on,  springs  up  with  such  a  sudden  tremen- 
dous splash  and  flutter  of  wings  and  outrageous 
screams,  that  man  himself,  if  not  prepared  for  it,  may 
be  thrown  off  his  balance. 

Passing  over  other  scenes,  about  one  hundred  and 
fifty  lines,  we  come  to  the  second  notable  passage, 
when  after  the  sowing  of  the  winter  wheat,  poor 
Giles  once  more  takes  up  his  old  occupation  of  rook- 
scaring.     It  is  now  as  in  spring  and  summer — 

Keen  blows  the  blast  and  ceaseless  rain  descends ; 
The  half'Stripped  hedge  a  sorry  shelter  lends, 

and  he  thinks  it  would  be  nice  to  have  a  hovel,  no 
matter  how  small,  to  take  refuge  in,  and  at  once  sets 
about  its  construction. 

In  some  sequestered  nook,  embanked  around, 

Sods  for  its  walls  and  straw  in  burdens  bound; 

Dried  fuel  hoarded  is  his  richest  store, 

And  circling  smoke  obscures  his  little  door; 

Whence  creeping  forth  to  duty's  call  he  yields, 

And  strolls  the  Crusoe  of  the  lonely  fields. 

On  whitehorn  tow'ring,  and  the  leafless  rose, 

A  frost-nipped  feast  in  bright  vermilion  glows; 

Where  clust'ring  sloes  in  glossy  order  rise, 

He  crops  the  loaded  branch,  a  cumbrous  prize; 

And  on  the  flame  the  splutt'ring  fruit  he  rests, 

Placing  green  sods  to  sieat  the  coming  guests; 

His  guests  by  promise;  playmates  young  and  gay; — 

But  ah!  fresh  pastures  lure  their  steps  away! 

He  sweeps  his  hearth,  and  homeward  looks  in  vain, 

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Troston 

Till  feeling  Disappointment's  cruel  pain 

His  fairy  revels  are  exchanged  for  rage, 

His  banquet  marred,  grown  dull  his  hermitage, 

The  field  becomes  his  prison,  till  on  high 

Benighted  birds  to  shades  and  coverts  fly. 

"The  field  becomes  his  prison,"  and  the  thought  of 
this  trival  restraint,  which  is  yet  felt  so  poignantly, 
brings  to  .mind  an  infinitely  greater  one.  Look,  he 
says — 

From  the  poor  bird-boy  with  his  roaste^d  sloes 

to  the  miserable  state  of  those  who  are  confined  in 
dungeons,  deprived  of  daylight  and  the  sight  of  the 
green  earth,  whose  minds  perpetually  travel  back  to 
happy  scenes. 

Trace  and  retrace  the  beaten  worn-out  way, 

whose  chief  bitterness  it  is  to  be  forgotten  and  see 
no  familiar  friendly  face. 

"Winter"  is,  I  think,  the  best  of  the  four  parts: 
It  gives  the  idea  that  the  poem  was  written  as  it 
stands,  from  "Spring"  onwards,  that  by  the  time  he 
got  to  the  last  part  the  writer  had  acquired  a  greater 
ease  and  assurance.  At  all  events  it  is  less  patchy 
and  more  equal.  It  is  also  more  sober  in  tone,  as 
befits  the  subject,  and  opens  with  an  account  of  the 
domestic  animals  on  the  farm,  their  increased  depend- 
ence on  man  and  the  compassionate  feelings  they  evoke 
in  us.  He  is,  we  feel,  dealing  with  realities,  always 
from  the  point  of  view  of  a  boy  of  sensitive  mind 

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Afoot  in  England 

and  tender  heart — of  one  taken  in  boyhood  from 
this  hfe  before  it  had  wrought  any  change  in  him. 
For  in  due  time  the  farm  boy,  however  fine  his  spirit 
may  be,  must  harden  and  grow  patient  and  stoUd  in 
heat  and  cold  and  wet,  Hke  the  horse  that  draws  the 
plough  or  cart;  and  as  he  hardens  he  grows  callous. 
In  his  wretched  London  garret  if  any  change  came  to 
him  it  was  only  to  an  increased  love  and  pity  for  the 
beasts  he  had  lived  among,  who  looked  and  cried  to 
him  to  be  fed.  He  describes  it  well,  the  frost  and 
bitter  cold,  the  hungry  cattle  following  the  cart  to 
the  fields,  the  load  of  turnips  thrown  out  on  the  hard 
frozen  ground;  but  the  turnips  too  are  frozen  hard 
and  they  cannot  eat  them  until  Giles,  following  with 
his  beetle,  splits  them  up  with  vigorous  blows,  and 
the  cows  gather  close  round  him,  sending  out  a  cloud 
of  steam  from  their  nostrils. 

The  dim  short  winter  day  soon  ends,  but  the  sound 
of  the  flails  continues  in  the  barns  till  long  after  dark 
before  the  weary  labourers  end  their  task  and  trudge 
home.  Giles,  too,  is  busy  at  this  time  taking  hay  to 
the  housed  cattle,  many  a  sweet  mouthful  being 
snatched  from  the  load  as  he  staggers  beneath  it  on 
his  way  to  the  racks.  Then  follow  the  well-earned 
hours  of  ^'warmth  and  rest"  by  the  fire  in  the  big 
old  kitchen  which  he  describes: — 

For  the   rude  architect,  unknown  to  fame, 
(Nor  symmetry  nor  elegance  his  aim), 
Who  spread  his  floors  of  solid  oak  on  high, 
On  beams  rough-hewn  from  age  to  age  that  lie, 
Bade  his  wide  fabric  unimpaired  sustain 

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The  orchard's  store,  and  cheese,  and  golden  grain; 
Bade  from  its  central  base,  capacious  laid, 
The  well-wrought  chimney  rear  its  lofty  head 
Where  since  hath  many  a  savoury  ham  been  stored, 
And  tempests  howled  and  Christmas  gambols  roared. 

The  tired  ploughman,  steeped  in  luxurious  heat, 
by  and  by  falls  asleep  and  dreams  sweetly  until  his 
chilblains  or  the  snapping  fire  awakes  him,  and  he 
pulls  himself  up  and  goes  forth  yawning  to  give  his 
team  their  last  feed,  his  lantern  throwing  a  feeble 
gleam  on  the  snow  as  he  makes  his  way  to  the  stable. 
Having  completed  his  task,  he  pats  the  sides  of  those 
he  loves  best  by  way  of  good-night,  and  leaves  them 
to  their  fragrant  meal.  And  this  kindly  action  on  his 
part  suggests  one  of  the  best  passages  of  the  poem. 
Even  old  well-fed  Dobbin  occasionally  rebels  against 
his  slavery,  and  released  from  his  chains  will  lift  his 
clumsy  hoofs  and  kick,  "disdainful  of  the  dirty  wheel.'* 
Short-sighted  Dobbin! 

Thy  chains  were  freedom,  and  thy  toils  repose. 
Could  the  poor  post-horse  tell  thee  all  his  woes; 
Show  thee  his  bleeding  shoulders,  and  unfold 
The  dreadful  anguish  he  endures  for  gold; 
Hired  at  each  call  of  business,  lust,  or  rage, 
That  prompts  the  traveller  on  from  stage  to  stage. 
Still  on  his  strength  depends  their  boasted  speed; 
For  them  his  limbs  grow  weak,  his  bare  ribs  bleed; 
And  though  he  groaning  quickens  at  command, 
Their  extra  shilling  in  the  rider's  hand 
Becomes  his  bitter  scourge.  .  .  . 

The  description,  too  long  to  quote,  which  follows  of 

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Afoot  in  England 

the  tortures  inflicted  on  the  post-horse  a  century  ago, 
is  almost  incredible  to  us,  and  we  flatter  ourselves 
that  such  things  would  not  be  tolerated  now.  But 
we  must  get  over  the  ground  somehow,  and  I  take  it 
that  but  for  the  invention  of  other  more  rapid  means 
of  transit  the  present  generation  would  be  as  little 
concerned  at  the  pains  of  the  post-horse  as  they  are  at 
the  horrors  enacted  behind  the  closed  doors  of  the 
physiological  laboratories,  the  atrocity  of  the  steel 
trap,  the  continual  murdering  by  our  big  game  hunters 
of  all  the  noblest  animals  left  on  the  globe,  and  finally 
the  annual  massacre  of  millions  of  beautiful  birds  in 
their  breeding  time  to  provide  ornaments  for  the  hats 
of  our  women. 

"Come  forth  he  must,"  s.ays  Bloomfield,  when  he 
describes  how  the  flogged  horse  at  length  gains  the 
end  of  the  stage  and,  "trembling  under  complicated 
pains,"  when  "every  nerve  a  separate  anguish  knows," 
he  is  finally  unharnessed  and  led  to  the  stable  door, 
but  has  scarcely  tasted  food  and  rest  before  he  is 
called  for  again. 

Though  limping,   maimed   and  sore; 
He  hears  the  whip;  the  chaise  is  at  the  door  .  .  . 
The  collar  tightens  and  again  he  feels 
His  half-healed  wounds  inflamed;  again  the  wheels 
With  tiresome  sameness  in  his  ears  resound 
O'er  blinding  dust  or  miles  of  flinty  ground. 

This  is  over  and  done  with  simply  because  the  post- 
horse  is  no  longer  wanted,  and  we  have  to  remember 
that  no  form  of  cruelty  inflicted,  whether  for  sport 

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Troston 

or  profit  or  from  some  other  motive,  on  the  lower 
animals  has  ever  died  out  of  itself  in  the  land.  Its 
end  has  invariably  been  brought  about  by  legislation 
through  the  devotion  of  men  who  were  the  "cranks/' 
the  "faddists,"  the  "sentimentalists,"  of  their  day,  who 
were  jeered  and  laughed  at  by  their  fellows,  and  who 
only  succeeded  by  sheer  tenacity  and  force  of  charac- 
ter after  long  fighting  against  public  opinion  and  a 
reluctant  Parliament,  in  finally  getting  their  law. 

Bloomfield's  was  but  a  small  voice  crying  in  the 
wilderness,  and  he  was  indeed  a  small  singer  in  the 
day  of  our  greatest  singers.  As  a  poet  he  was  not 
worthy  to  unloose  the  buckles  of  their  shoes;  but  he 
had  one  thing  in  common  with  the  best  and  greatest, 
the  feeling  of  tender  love  and  compassion  for  the 
lower  animals  which  was  in  Thomson  and  Cowper, 
but  found  its  highest  expression  in  his  own  great  con- 
temporaries, Coleridge,  Shelley,  and  Wordsworth. 
In  virtue  of  this  feeling  he  was  of  their  illustrious 
brotherhood. 

In  conclusion,  I  will  quote  one  more  passage. 
From  the  subject  of  horses  he  passes  to  that  of  dogs 
and  their  occasional  reversion  to  wildness,  when  the 
mastiff  or  cur,  the  "faithful"  house-dog  by  day,  takes 
to  sheep-killing  by  night.  As  a  rule  he  is  exceedingly 
cunning,  committing  his  depredations  at  a  distance 
from  home,  and  after  getting  his  fill  of  slaughter  he 
sneaks  home  in  the  early  hours  to  spend  the  day  in  his 
kennel  "licking  his  guilty  paws."  This  is  an  anxious 
time  for  shepherds  and  farmers,  and  poor  Giles  is 
compelled  to  pay  late  evening  visits  to  his  small  flock 

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Afoot  in  England 

of  heavy-sided  ewes  penned  In  their  distant  fold.  It 
is  a  comfort  to  him  to  have  a  full  moon  on  these  lonely 
expeditions,  and  despite  his  tremors  he  is  able  to  ap- 
preciate the  beauty  of  the  scene. 

With  saunt'ring  steps  he  climbs  the  distant  stile, 
Whilst  all  around  him  wears  a  placid  smile; 
There  views  the  white-robed  clouds  in  clusters  driven 
And  all  the  glorious  pageantry  of  heaven. 
Low  on  the  utmost  bound'ry  of  the  sight 
The  rising  vapours  catch  the  silver  light; 
Thence  fancy  measures  as  they  parting  fly 
Which  firsi:  will  throw  its  shadow  on  the  eye, 
Passing  the  source  of  light;  and  thence  away 
Succeeded  quick  by  brighter  still  than  they. 
For  yet  above  the  wafted  clouds  are  seen 
(In  a  remoter  sky  still  more  serene) 
Others  detached  in  ranges  through  the  air, 
Spotless  as  snow  and  countless  as  they're  fair; 
Scattered  immensely  wide  from  east  to  west 
The  beauteous  semblance  of  a  flock  at  rest. 

This  is  almost  the  only  passage  in  the  poem  in  which 
something  of  the  vastness  of  visible  nature  is  con- 
veyed. He  saw  the  vastness  only  in  the  sky  on  nights 
with  a  full  moon  or  when  he  made  a  telescope  of  his 
hat  to  watch  the  flight  of  the  lark.  It  was  not  a  hilly 
country  about  his  native  place,  and  his  horizon  was 
a  very  limited  one,  usually  bounded  by  the  hedgerow 
timber  at  the  end  of  the  level  field.  The  things  he 
depicts  were  seen  at  short  range,  an,d  the  poetry,  we 
see,  was  of  a  very  modest  kind.  It  was  a  ''humble 
note"  which  pleased  me  in  the  days  of  long  ago  when 

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Troston 
I  was  young  and  very  ignorant,  and  as  it  pleases  me 
still  it  may  be  supposed  that  mentally  I  have  not  pro- 
gressed with  the  years.  Nevertheless,  I  am  not  in- 
capable of  appreciating  the  greater  music;  all  that  is 
said  in  its  praise,  even  to  the  extremest  expressions 
of  admiration  of  those  who  are  moved  to  a  sense  of 
wonder  by  it,  find  an  echo  in  me.  But  it  is  not  only 
a  delight  to  me  to  listen  to  the  lark  singing  at  heaven's 
gate  and  to  the  vesper  nightingale  in  the  oak  copse — 
the  singer  of  a  golden  throat  and  wondrous  artistry; 
I  also  love  the  smaller  vocalists — the  modest  shuffle- 
wing  and  the  lesser  whitethroat  and  the  yellow-ham- 
mer with  his  simple  chant.  These  are  very  dear  to 
me:  their  strains  do  not  strike  me  as  trivial;  they 
have  a  lesser  distinction  of  their  own  and  I  would  not 
miss  them  from  the  choir.  The  literary  man  will 
smile  at  this  and  say  that  my  paper  is  naught  but  an 
idle  exercise,  but  I  fancy  I  shall  *'leep  the  better  to- 
night for  having  discharged  this  ancient  debt  which 
has  been  long  on  my  conscience. 


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Chapter  Twenty-Five:  My  Friend 
Jack 

My  friend  Jack  is  a  retriever — very  black,  very  curly, 
perfect  in  shape,  but  just  a  retriever;  and  he  is  really 
not  my  friend,  only  he  thinks  he  is,  which  comes  to 
the  same  thing.  So  convinced  is  he  that  I  am  his 
guide,  protector,  and  true  master,  that  if  I  were  to 
give  him  a  downright  scolding  or  even  a  thrashing  he 
would  think  it  was  all  right  and  go  on  just  the  same. 
His  way  of  going  on  is  to  make  a  companion  of  me 
whether  I  want  him  or  not.  I  do  not  want  him,  but 
his  idea  is  that  I  want  him  very  much.  I  bitterly 
blame  myself  for  having  made  the  first  advances,  al- 
though nothing  came  of  it  except  that  he  growled.  I 
met  him  in  a  Cornish  village  in  a  house  where  I  stayed. 
There  was  a  nice  kennel  there,  painted  green,  with  a 
bed  of  clean  straw  and  an  empty  plate  which  had  con- 
tained his  dinner,  but  on  peeping  in  I  saw  no  dog. 
Next  day  it  was  the  same,  and  the  next,  and  the  day 
after  that;  then  I  inquired  about  it — ^Was  there  a  dog 
in  that  house  or  not?  Oh,  yes,  certainly  there  was: 
Jack,  but  a  very  independent  sort  of  dog.  On  most 
days  he  looked  in,  ate  his  dinner  and  had  a  nap  on  his 
straw,  but  he  was  not  what  you  would  call  a  home- 
keeping  dog. 

One  day  I  found  him  in,  and  after  we  had  looked 
for  about  a  minute  at  each  other,  I  squatting  before 

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My  Friend  Jack 

the  kennel,  he  with  chin  on  paws  pretending  to  be 
looking  through  me  at  something  beyond,  I  addressed 
a  few  kind  words  to  him,  which  he  received  with  the 
before-mentioned  growl.  I  pronounced  him  a  surly 
brute  and  went  away.  It  was  growl  for  growl. 
Nevertheless  I  was  well  pleased  at  having  escaped  the 
consequences  In  speaking  kindly  to  him.  I  am  not  a 
*'doggy"  person  nor  even  a  canophilist.  The  purely 
parasitic  or  degenerate  pet  dog  moves  me  to  compas- 
sion, but  the  natural  vigorous  outdoor  dog  I  fear  and 
avoid  because  we  are  not  in  harmony;  consequently  I 
suffer  and  am  a  loser  when  he  forces  his  company  on 
me.  The  outdoor  world  I  live  in  is  not  the  one  to 
which  a  man  goes  for  a  constitutional,  with  a  dog  to 
save  him  from  feeling  lonely,  or,  If  he  has  a  gun,  with 
a  dog  to  help  him  kill  something.  It  is  a  world  which 
has  sound  In  It,  distant  cries  and  penetrative  calls,  and 
low  mysterious  notes,  as  of  insects  and  corncrakes,  and 
frogs  chirping  and  of  grasshopper  warblers — sounds 
like  wind  in  the  dry  sedges.  And  there  are  also  sweet 
and  beautiful  songs;  but  It  Is  very  quiet  world  where 
creatures  move  about  subtly,  on  wings,  on  polished 
scales,  on  softly  padded  feet — rabbits,  foxes,  stoats, 
weasels,  and  voles  and  birds  and  Hzards  and  adders 
and  slow-worms,  also  beetles  and  dragon-flies.  Many 
are  at  enmity  with  each  other,  but  on  account  of  their 
quietude  there  is  no  disturbance,  no  outcry  and  rush- 
ing Into  hiding.  And  having  acquired  this  habit  from 
them  I  am  able  to  see  and  be  with  them.  The  sitting 
bird,  the  frolicking  rabbit,  the  basking  adder — they 

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Afoot  in  England 

are  as  little  disturbed  at  my  presence  as  the  butterfly 
that  drops  down  close  to  my  feet  to  sun  his  wings  on 
a  leaf  or  frond  and  makes  me  hold  my  breath  at 'the 
sight  of  his  divine  colour,  as  if  he  had  just  fluttered 
down  from  some  brighter  realm  in  the  sky.  Think 
of  a  dog  in  this  world,  intoxicated  with  the  odours 
of  so  many  wild  creatures,  dashing  and  splashing 
through  bogs  and  bushes !  It  is  ten  times  worse  than 
a  bull  in  a  china-shop.  The  bull  can  but  smash  a  lot 
of  objects  made  of  baked  clay;  the  dog  introduces  a 
mad  panic  in  a  world  of  living  intelligent  beings,  a 
fairy  realm  of  exquisite  beauty.  They  scuttle  away 
and  vanish  into  hiding  as  if  a  deadly  wind  had  blown 
over  the  earth  and  swept  them  out  of  existence. 
Only  the  birds  remain — they  can  fly  and  do  not  fear  for 
their  own  lives,  but  are  in  a  state  of  intense  anxiety 
about  their  eggs  and  young  among  the  bushes  which 
he  is  dashing  through  or  exploring. 

I  had  good  reason,  then,  to  congratulate  myself  on 
Jack's  surly  behaviour  on  our  first  meeting.  Then, 
a  few  days  later,  a  curious  thing  happened.  Jack  was 
discovered  one  morning  in  his  kennel,  and  when  spoken 
to  came  or  rather  dragged  himself  out,  a  most  pitiable 
object.  He  was  horribly  bruised  and  sore  all  over; 
his  bones  appeared  to  be  all  broken;  he  was  limp  and 
could  hardly  get  on  his  feet,  and  in  that  miserable  con- 
dition he  continued  for  some  three  days. 

At  first  we  thought  he  had  been  In  a  big  fight — he 
was  Inclined  that  way,  his  master  said — but  we  could 
discover  no  tooth  marks  or  lacerations,  nothing  but 

300 


My  Friend  Jack 

bruises.  Perhaps,  we  said,  he  had  fallen  into  the 
hands  of  some  cruel  person  in  one  of  the  distant  moor- 
land farms,  who  had  tied  him  up,  then  thrashed  him 
with  a  big  stick,  and  finally  turned  him  loose  to  die  on 
the  moor  or  crawl  home  if  he  could.  His  master 
looked  so  black  at  this  that  we  said  no  more  about  it. 
But  Jack  was  a  wonderfully  tough  dog,  all  gristle  I 
think,  and  after  three  days  of  lying  there  like  a  dead 
dog  he  quickly  recovered,  though  Fm  quite  sure  that  if 
his  injuries  had  been  distributed  among  any  half-dozen 
pampered  or  pet  dogs  It  would  have  killed  them  all. 
A  morning  came  when  the  kennel  was  empty:  Jack 
was  not  dead — he  was  well  again,  and,  as  usual,  out. 
Just  then  I  was  absent  for  a  week  or  ten  days  then, 
back  again,  I  went  out  one  fine  morning  for  a  long 
day's  ramble  along  the  coast.  A  mile  or  so  from 
home,  happening  to  glance  back  I  caught  sight  of  a 
black  dog's  face  among  the  bushes  thirty  or  forty  yards 
away  gazing  earnestly  at  me.  It  was  Jack,  of  course, 
nothing  but  his  head  visible  in  an  opening  among  the 
bushes — a  black  head  which  looked  as  if  carved  in 
ebony,  In  a  wonderful  setting  of  shining  yellow  furze 
blossoms.  The  beauty  and  singularity  of  the  sight 
made  It  Impossible  for  me  to  be  angry  with  him,  though 
there's  nothing  a  man  more  resents  than  being  shad- 
owed, or  secretly  followed  and  spied  upon,  even  by  a 
dog,  so,  without  considering  what  I  was  letting  myself 
in  for,  I  cried  out  "Jack"  and  Instantly  he  bounded  out 
and  came  to  my  side,  then  flew  on  ahead,  well  pleased 
to  lead  the  way. 

301 


Afoot  in  England 

"I  must  suffer  him  this  time,"  I  said  resignedly,  and 
went  on,  he  always  ahead  acting  as  my  scout  and  hun- 
ter— self-appointed,  of  course,  but  as  I  had  not  ordered 
him  back  in  trumpet  tones  and  hurled  a  rock  at  him  to 
enforce  the  command,  he  took  it  that  he  was  appointed 
by  me.  He  certainly  made  the  most  of  his  position; 
no  one  could  say  that  he  was  lacking  in  zeal.  He 
scoured  the  country  to  the  right  and  left  and  far  in  ad- 
vance of  me,  crashing  through  furze  thickets  and 
splashing  across  bogs  and  streams,  spreading  terror 
where  he  went  and  leaving  nothing  for  me  to  look  at. 
So  it  went  on  until  after  one  o'clock  when,  tired  and 
hungry,  I  was  glad  to  go  down  into  a  small  fishing  cove 
to  get  some  dinner  in  a  cottage  I  knew.  Jack  threw 
himself  down  on  the  floor  and  shared  my  meal,  then 
made  friends  with  the  fisherman's  wife  and  got  a  second 
meal  of  saffron  cake  which,  being  a  Cornish  dog,  he 
thoroughly  enjoyed. 

The  second  half  of  the  day  was  very  much  like  the 
first,  altogether  a  blank  day  for  me,  although  a  very 
full  one  for  Jack,  who  had  filled  a  vast  number  of  wild 
creatures  with  terror,  furiously  hunted  a  hundred  or 
more,  and  succeeded  in  killing  two  or  three. 

Jack  was  impossible,  and  would  never  be  allowed 
to  follow  me  again.  So  I  sternly  said  and  so  thought, 
but  when  the  time  came  and  I  found  him  waiting  for  me 
his  brown  eyes  bright  with  joyful  anticipation,  I  could 
not  scowl  at  him  and  thunder  out  No !  I  could  not 
help  putting  myself  in  his  place.  For  here  he  was,  a 
dog  of  boundless  energy  who  must  exercise  his  powers 

302 


My  Friend  Jack 

or  be  miserable,  with  nothing  in  the  village  for  him 
except  to  witness  the  not  very  exciting  activities  of 
others;  and  that,  I  dscovered,  had  been  his  Hfe.  He 
was  mad  to  do  something,  and  because  there  was  no- 
thing for  him  to  do  his  time  was  mostly  spent  in  going 
about  the  village  to  keep  an  eye  on  the  movements  of 
the  people,  especially  of  those  who  did  the  work,  always 
with  the  hope  that  his  services  might  be  required  in 
some  way  by  some  one.  He  was  grateful  for  the 
smallest  crumbs,  so  to  speak.  House-work  and  work 
about  the  house — milking,  feeding  the  pigs  and  so  on 
— did  not  interest  him,  nor  would  he  attend  the  la- 
bourers in  the  fields.  Harvest  time  would  make  a  dif- 
ference; now  it  was  ploughing,  sowing,  and  hoeing, 
with  nothing  for  Jack.  But  he  was  always  down  at 
the  fishing  cove  to  see  the  boats  go  out  or  come  In  and 
join  in  the  excitement  when  there  was  a  good  catch. 
It  was  still  better  when  the  boat  went  with  provisions 
to  the  lighthouse,  or  to  relieve  the  keeper,  for  then 
Jack  would  go  too  and  If  they  would  not  have  him  he 
would  plunge  Into  the  waves  and  swim  after  it  until 
the  sails  were  hoisted  and  it  flew  like  a  great  gull  from 
him  and  he  was  compelled  to  swim  back  to  land.  If 
there  was  nothing  else  to  do  he  would  go  to  the  stone 
quarry  and  keep  the  quarrymen  company,  sharing  their 
dinner  and  hunting  away  the  cows  and  donkeys  that 
came  too  near.  Then  at  six  o'clock  he  would  turn  up 
at  the  cricket-field,  where  a  few  young  enthusiasts 
would  always  attend  to  practise  after  working  hours. 
Living  this  way  Jack  was,  of  course,  known  to  every- 

303 


Afoot  in  England 
body — as  well  known  as  the  burly  parson,  the  tall 
policeman,  and  the  lazy  girl  who  acted  as  postman  and 
strolled  about  the  parish  once  a  day  delivering  the 
letters.  When  Jack  trotted  down  the  village  street  he 
received  as  many  greetings  as  any  human  inhabitant — 
''Hullo,  Jack!"  or  "Morning,  Jack,"  or  "Where  be 
going,  Jack?" 

But  all  this  variety,  and  all  he  could  do  to  fit  himself 
into  and  be  a  part  of  the  village  life  and  fill  up  his 
time,  did  not  satisfy  him.  Happiness  for  Jack  was 
out  on  the  moor — its  lonely  wet  thorny  places,  preg- 
nant with  fascinating  scents,  not  of  flowers  and 
odorous  herbs,  but  of  alert,  warm-blooded,  and  swift- 
footed  creatures.  And  I  was  g6ing  there — would  I, 
could  I,  be  so  heartless  as  to  refuse  to  take  him? 

You  see  that  Jack,  being  a  dog,  could  not  go  there 
alone.  He  was  a  social  being  by  instinct  as  well  as 
training,  dependent  on  others,  or  on  the  one  who  was 
his  head  and  master.  His  human  master,  or  the  man 
who  took  him  out  and  spoke  to  him  in  a  tone  of  author- 
ity, represented  the  head  of  the  pack — the  leading  dog 
for  the  time  being,  albeit  a  dog  that  walked  on  his  hind 
legs  and  spoke  a  bow-wow  dialect  of  his  own. 

I  thought  of  all  this  and  of  many  things  besides. 
The  dog,  I  remembered,  was  taken  by  man  out  of  his 
own  world  and  thrust  into  one  where  he  can  never 
adapt  himself  perfectly  to  the  conditions,  and  it  was 
consequently  nothing  more  than  simple  justice  on  my 
part  to  do  what  I  could  to  satisfy  his  desire  even  at 
some  cost  to  myself.     But  while  I  was  revolving  the 

304 


My  Friend  Jack 

matter  In  my  mind,  feeling  rather  unhappy  about  it, 
Jack  was  quite  happy,  since  he  had  nothing  to  revolve. 
For  him  it  was  all  settled  and  done  with.  Having 
taken  him  out  once,  I  must  go  on  taking  him  out  al- 
ways. Our  two  lives,  hitherto  running  apart — his  in 
the  village,  where  he  occupied  himself  with  unconge- 
nial affairs,  mine  on  the  moor  where,  having  but  two 
legs  to  run  on,  I  could  catch  no  rabbits — were  now 
united  in  one  current  to  our  mutual  advantage. 
His  habits  were  altered  to  suit  the  new  life.  He 
stayed  in  now  so  as  not  to  lose  me  when  I  went  for 
a  walk,  and  when  returning,  instead  of  going  back  to 
his  kennel,  he  followed  me  in  and  threw  himself  down, 
all  wet,  on  the  rug  before  the  fire.  His  master  and 
mistress  came  in  and  stared  in  astonishment.  It  was 
against  the  rules  of  the  house !  They  ordered  him 
out  and  he  looked  at  them  without  moving.  Then 
they  spoke  again  very  sharply  indeed,  and  he  growled 
a  low  buzzing  growl  without  lifting  his  chin  from  his 
paws,  and  they  had  to  leave  him!  He  had  trans- 
ferred his  allegiance  to  a  new  master  and  head  of  the 
pack.  He  was  under  my  protection  and  felt  quite 
safe:  If  I  had  taken  any  part  in  that  scene  it  would 
have  been  to  order  those  two  persons  who  had  once 
lorded  it  over  him  out  of  the  room! 

I  didn't  really  mind  his  throwing  over  his  master 
and  taking  possession  of  the  rug  in  my  sitting-room, 
but  I  certainly  did  very  keenly  resent  his  behaviour 
towards  the  birds  every  morning  at  breakfast-time. 
It  was  my  chief  pleasure  to  feed  them  during  the  bad 
weather,  and  it  was  often  a  difficult  task  even  before 


Afoot  in  England 

Jack  came  on  the  scene  to  mix  himself  in  my  affairs. 
The  Land's  End  is,  I  believe,  the  windiest  place  in 
the  world,  and  when  I  opened  the  window  and  threw 
the  scraps  out  the  wind  would  catch  and  whirl  them 
away  like  so  many  feathers  over  the  garden  wall,  and 
I  could  not  see  what  became  of  them.  It  was  neces- 
sary to  go  out  by  the  kitchen  door  at  the  back  (the 
front  door  facing  the  sea  being  impossible)  and  scatter 
the  food  on  the  lawn,  and  then  go  into  watch  the 
result  from  behind  the  window.  The  blackbirds  and 
thrushes  would  wait  for  a  lull  to  fly  in  over  the  wall, 
while  the  daws  would  hover  overhead  and  sometimes 
succeed  in  dropping  down  and  seizing  a  crust,  but 
often  enough  when  descending  they  would  be  caught 
and  whirled  away  by  the  blast.  The  poor  magpies 
found  their  long  tails  very  much  against  them  in  the 
scramble,  and  it  was  even  worse  with  the  pied  wag- 
tail. He  would  go  straight  for  the  bread  and  get 
whirled  and  tossed  about  the  smooth  lawn  like  a  toy 
bird  made  of  feathers,  his  tail  blown  over  his  head. 
It  was  bad  enough,  and  then  Jack,  curious  about  these 
visits  to  the  lawn,  came  to  investigate  and  finding  the 
scraps,  proceeded  to  eat  them  all  up.  I  tried  to  make 
him  understand  better  by  feeding  him  before  I  fed  the 
birds;  then  by  scolding  and  even  hitting  him,  but  he 
would  not  see  it;  he  knew  better  than  I  did;  he  wasn't 
hungry  and  he  didn't  want  bread,  but  he  would  eat 
it  all  the  same,  every  scrap  of  it,  just  to  prevent  it 
from  being  wasted.  Jack  was  doubtless  both  vexed 
and  amused  at  my  simplicity  in  thinking  that  all  this 

306 


My  Friend  Jack 

food  which  I  put  on  the  lawn  would  remain  there  un- 
devoured  by  those  useless  creatures  the  birds  until 
it  was  wanted. 

Even  this  I  forgave  him,  for  I  saw  that  he  had 
not,  that  with  his  dog  mind  he  could  not,  understand 
me.  I  also  remembered  the  words  of  a  wise  old  Cor- 
nish writer  with  regard  to  the  mind  of  the  lower 
animals:  ''But  their  faculties  of  mind  are  no  less  pro- 
portioned to  their  state  of  subjection  than  the  shape 
afid  properties  of  their  bodies.  They  have  knowledge 
peculiar  to  their  several  spheres  and  sufficient  for  the 
under-part  they  have  to  act." 

Let  me  be  free  from  the  delusion  that  it  is  possible 
to  raise  them  above  this  level,  or  in  other  words  to 
add  an  inch  to  their  mental  stature.  I  have  nothing 
to  forgive  Jack  after  all.  And  so  in  spite  of  every- 
thing Jack  was  suffered  at  home  and  accompanied  me 
again  and  again  in  my  walks  abroad;  and  there  were 
more  blank  days,  or  if  not  altogether  blank,  seeing  that 
there  was  Jack  himself  to  be  observed  and  thought 
about,  they  were  not  the  kind  of  days  I  had  counted  on 
having.  My  only  consolation  was  that  Jack  failed  to 
capture  more  than  one  out  of  every  hundred,  or  per- 
haps five  hundred,  of  the  creatures  he  hunted,  and  that 
I  was  even  able  to  save  a  few  of  these.  But  I  could 
not  help  admiring  his  tremendous  energy  and  courage, 
especially  in  cliff-climbing  when  we  visited  the  head- 
lands— those  stupendous  masses  and  lofty  piles  of 
granite  which  rise  like  castles  built  by  giants  of  old. 
He  would  almost  make  me  tremble  for  his  life  when, 

307 


Afoot  in  England 

after  climbing  on  to  some  projecting  rock,  he  would 
go  to  the  extreme  end  and  look  down  over  it  as  if  it 
pleased  him  to  watch  the  big  waves  break  in  foam 
on  the  black  rocks  a  couple  of  hundred  feet  below. 
But  it  was  not  the  big  green  waves  or  any  sight  in  na- 
ture that  drew  him — he  sniffed  and  sniffed  and  wrig- 
gled and  twisted  his  black  nose,  and  raised  and  de- 
pressed his  ears  as  he  sniffed,  and  was  excited  solely 
because  the  upward  currents  o*f  air  brought  him  tidings 
of  living  creatures  that  lurked  in  the  rocks  below — 
badger  and  fox  and  rabbit.  One  day  when  quitting 
one  of  these  places,  on  looking  up  I  spied  Jack  stand- 
ing on  the  summit  of  a  precipice  about  seventy-five 
feet  high.  Jack  saw  me  and  waved  his  tail,  and  then 
started  to  come  straight  down  to  me !  From  the  top 
a  faint  rabbit-track  was*  visible  winding  downwards  to 
within  twenty-four  feet  of  the  ground;  the  rest  was  a 
sheer  wall  of  rock.  Down  he  dashed,  faster  and 
faster  as  he  got  to  where  the  track  ended,  and  then 
losing  his  footing  he  fell  swiftly  to  the  earth,  but 
luckily  dropped  on  a  deep  spongy  turf  and  was  not 
hurt.  After  witnessing  this  reckless  act  I  knew  how 
he  had  come  by  those  frightful  bruises  on  a  former  oc- 
casion. He  had  doubtless  fallen  a  long  way  down  a 
cliff  and  had  been  almost  crushed  on  the  stones.  But 
the  lesson  was  lost  on  Jack;  he  would  have  it  that 
where  rabbits  and  foxes  went  he  could  go ! 

After  all,  the  chief  pleasure  those  blank  bad  days 
had  for  me  was  the  thought  that  Jack  was  as  happy  as 
he  could  well  be.  But  it  was  not  enough  to  satisfy  me, 
and  by  and  by  it  came  into  my  mind  that  I  had  been 

308 


My  Friend  Jack 

long  enough  at  that  place.  It  was  hard  to  leave  Jack, 
who  had  put  himself  so  entirely  in  my  hands,  and 
trusted  me  so  implicitly.  But — the  weather  was  keep- 
ing very  bad:  was  there  ever  known  such  a  June  as 
this  of  1907?  So  wet  and  windy  and  cold!  Then, 
too,  the  bloom  had  gone  from  the  furze*.  It  was,  I 
remembered,  to  witness  this  chief  loveliness  that  I 
came.  Looking  on  the  wide  moor  and  far-off  boulder- 
strewn  hills  and  seeing  how  rusty  the  bushes  were,  I 
quoted — 

The  bloom  has  gone,  and  with  the  bloom  go  I, 

and  early  in  the  morning,  with  all  my  belongings  on 
my  back,  I  stole  softly  forth,  glancing  apprehensively 
in  the  direction  of  the  kennel,  and  out  on  to  the  windy 
road.  It  was  painful  to  me  to  have  to  decamp  in  this 
way;  it  made  me  think  meanly  of  myself;  but  if  Jack 
could  read  this  and  could  speak  his  mind  I  think  he 
would  acknowledge  that  my  way  of  bringing  the  con- 
nection to  an  end  was  best  for  both  of  us.  I  was  not 
the  person,  or  dog  on  two  legs,  he  had  taken  me  for, 
one  with  a  proper  desire  to  kill  things :  I  only  acted 
according  to  my  poor  lights.  Nothing,  then,  remains 
to  be  said  except  that  one  word  which  it  was  not  con- 
venient to  speak  on  the  windy  morning  of  my  depar- 
ture—Good-bye Jack. 


309 


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MAY    3  1947 

DEC  13  1947 

.,    25?*'53WD 

dim  I  I  1^5/  I  ^ 

T^^'^^'-^ 

REC'D  .~0 

MAY  2  3  V^bB 

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JRPIH.  KC29*? 

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